Fall of Kings (44 page)

Smiling, Andromache threw herself down on a couch. Strange days, she thought.
There was a listless stillness in the city she never had known before. The heat
lay like a wool blanket, stifling movement and keeping everyone indoors in the
shade. The streets were empty except in the evenings, when weary people lined up
for bread and water. No one had enough water or enough to eat.

Although they all lived under the daily threat of death, Andromache felt
strangely content. Her husband and her lover were both away at war, and she no
longer felt the exhausting conflict of desires and responsibility. Her choice
had been made. She would stay with her son and with Dex until the end came and
the blood-hungry soldiers poured in and then protect the boys with her life.

Each day she worked in the House of Serpents. It was more than fifty days
since the last major attack by the armies of Agamemnon, and the only injuries
now were arrow wounds and broken limbs sustained when soldiers who had received
their wine ration tumbled off the walls. The work at the healing houses was not
hard. Xander had disappeared mysteriously, and Andromache wondered what had
become of him, but most of the priests and healers had stayed. The dying were
not fed and were given only enough water to moisten their mouths. Those thought
likely to recover were given water until they complained of hunger, when they
were fed as well. Andromache hated being in the palace all day, with its air of
heavy anxiety, and preferred to keep herself busy working among the injured and
dying, feeding them, talking to them, sometimes holding their hands until they
died.

The truth was, she thought, no one had enough to do. The daily routines of
the city had broken down because of the lack of supplies and exhaustion brought
on by the shortage of food and water and the energy-sapping heat. Most people,
when not standing in line for food, stayed home. Inactivity sparked gossip and
fueled people’s fears. Her handmaids Penthesileia and Anio had too much time on
their hands, she thought, and spent it discussing the plight of the city with
other royal servants.

Her mind drifted back to the previous autumn and Kassandra’s words to the
girls when she last had been in these rooms.
“You must learn to shoot! The
Women of the Horse with shaft and bow! You see? You see, Andromache?”

“Yes, Kassandra,” Andromache said to the empty room. “I see now.”

Polites was waiting in the
megaron
with Banokles and Kalliades when
Andromache arrived. She smiled at the two warriors, the one blond-bearded and
powerful, the other tall and dark. She always would remember them running down
the hillside to her rescue on the night Kalliope died. Then they were Mykene
rebels fighting assassins who had come to kill her. Now they were the most
respected soldiers in the Trojan army. She had heard of the death of Banokles’
wife and was filled with sympathy, but the only time she had tried to raise the
subject with him, he had ignored her and rudely walked away.

“I assume,” she said to Polites, sitting on a padded chair and folding her
hands, “that we are to discuss rationing and the care of the wounded. You would
not have asked me to a meeting of strategy.”

Polites sighed. “Our only strategy is staying alive. We have not been
attacked for fifty-five days. The heat and lack of food and water are our worst
enemies now. Our food will only barely last until the autumn. The wells may run
dry any day.”

“Is that likely?” Kalliades asked.

“It has happened before.” General Lucan hurried into the
megaron
alongside the king’s aide Polydorus and Ipheus, the young commander of the
Eagles. “Both wells ran dry in the summer heat some forty years ago,” he
explained. “The rivers were down to a trickle, too. It was a hard summer. All
the livestock died. We had to slaughter most of the horses. I’ve never seen its
like. But the rains came early that year, and we survived.”

“The enemy is suffering, too,” Kalliades put in. “They have water aplenty,
but their food supplies are not getting through. We have Hektor and Helikaon to
thank for that. Agamemnon’s armies have ravaged the countryside all around the
city. There are no crops left, no livestock. And hungry soldiers are unhappy
soldiers. We know one army of mercenaries departed ten days ago, heading south.
Others will start defecting if they see no end to the war.”

“It is our best hope,” Polites said.

“No,” Banokles put in, scratching his beard, “our best hope is that Agamemnon
and his bunch of poxy kings lay down their arms and surrender to us. But it’s
not very likely.”

The men all smiled, but Andromache said impatiently, “What are we here to
discuss, Polites? The situation at the House of Serpents is the same as it was
before, when we met three days ago. Many old people and babies are being cared
for now, suffering from the heat and drought. Ten more injured bowmen have been
brought in. Two died. Three have infected wounds and are likely to die. The
others will live, Zeotos says.”

Angrily, she added, “I don’t understand why our bowmen are being put in
danger when we are not under attack. Taking potshots at the enemy below the
walls achieves little. If each of our archers was to kill one enemy soldier
every day, it would still be like a drop of water in the Great Green.”

“We need to remind the enemy, Sister,” Polites replied, “that Troy is stoutly
defended. Each attack, even a single arrow shot over the battlements, has to be
met with an answer from the city.”

Kalliades added gravely, “And if the city falls, lady, and the Scaean Gate is
opened, then a few bowmen will not make a difference to our fortunes.”

“It only takes a single arrow to kill a king,” she answered him briskly.

They went on to discuss more stringent rationing, for Polites was concerned
about the rapidly dwindling stores of grain. Andromache told them she had
visited every baker in the city, gathering advice on keeping grain fresh and
free of weevils and ensuring that all the bakers knew of it.

When the men started to talk about rotating troops at the Scaean Gate, she
left the
megaron.
She was feeling restless and, on a whim, gathered her
bodyguards, who were playing knucklebones in the portico, and made her way to
Priam’s palace. With Polydorus busy in the meeting, Andromache had a sudden urge
to speak to the king alone. The young soldier was constantly at his side, and
although she liked Polydorus, she felt constrained from speaking openly to Priam
when he was present.

She was shown up to the queen’s apartments, where the king had resided since
the death of Hekabe. She had expected to find him resting. But when a soldier
showed her into a chamber, she was surprised to find the old man out on the wide
stone balcony. He was standing staring at the darkening sky, wrapped in a white
wool cloak despite the heat. He turned to her, and for a moment she was reminded
of the man she first had met on the Great Tower of Ilion. He was still powerful
and vital then, and she was a girl of twenty who was risking death because she
refused to kneel to a king. Such arrogance, the older Andromache thought
ruefully, such pride.

“I hope I find you well, my king,” she said to him.

“Andromache of Thebe!” he cried, and in the torchlight his eyes glittered
with life. She realized that this was not the confused old man of recent days
but the powerful and capricious king she once had feared, though she did not
show it.

“Come, stand with me and gaze upon our city.” He held out his hand, and she
took it. He drew her out onto the balcony. She gazed sideways at his profile,
the high beaked nose and firm jaw, and wondered if mischievous gods had
transported her back to her first days in Troy.

“Tell me of the Eagle Child,” he demanded, his voice strong. And he quoted
the prophecy of Melite: “
Beneath the Shield of Thunder waits the Eagle Child
on shadow wings, to soar above all city gates till end of days and fall of
kings.
”

“Astyanax, they call him,” he went on. “Lord of the city. Foolish old women
try to touch his tunic as he walks in the streets, I’m told. He is the hope of
Troy.” His voice changed and became more urgent. “He must stay in the city,
Andromache.”

She was about to agree with him when he grabbed her by the arms, pushing her
against the stone balcony. “I will not let him leave Troy!” he rasped, his voice
angry in her ear. “I know what you’re thinking, girl! You will smuggle him out
of the gates, bundled in a basket, just a soldier’s whore with a bag of clothes.
But you will not. I will have him guarded night and day. My Eagles will see that
you do him no harm!”

With manic strength he lifted her off her feet, attempting to push her over
the wide stone wall of the balcony. “I will stop you now!” he cried. “You will
not take him!”

She tried to fight against him, but her arms were pinned, and she was
helpless as he pushed her out over the high drop to the stones below. Forcing
herself to stay calm, she made herself go limp in his arms. Recalling her last
interview with Queen Hekabe, she whispered seductively to him the words she had
heard, though they meant little to her, “Where do we sail today, my lord? The
Scamandrios
is waiting.”

His body jerked with shock, and he released her. Andromache dragged herself
back to safety, her heart pounding, and stepped away from him, watching him
carefully.

“Hekabe?” he asked her uncertainly, his voice quavering, his eyes pained and
confused.

“Go to your rest, my husband,” she said softly. “I will join you in a
heartbeat.”

Priam hesitated and then shuffled over to his wide bed, lifting his feet up
with effort, and lay there as obedient as a child. Andromache gazed at him,
emotions warring in her breast. Fear of the powerful king on the balcony quickly
gave way to pity for the confused old man. She hurried from the room.

Deep in thought, she was walking down a torchlit corridor when a voice behind
her said, “Lady, are you all right?”

Turning swiftly, her nerves in a jangle, she saw that it was Kalliades. She
realized she must have looked flushed and disheveled, and she collected her
thoughts.

“I am glad you are here, Kalliades,” she told him. “I wish to talk with you.
I need any bows and arrows you can spare brought to me in the palace gardens
tomorrow. I am going to teach the Women of the Horse to shoot.”

“Women of the Horse?” he queried, frowning.

“They are daughters of riders of the Trojan Horse who died in the service of
the city. They are given places in the royal household. My two handmaids are the
daughters of a rider called Ursos.”

“I knew Ursos,” Kalliades replied. “A good man. He died in the battle for
Dardanos.”

“His daughters are among many young women still in the city. If the walls
fall, their fate will be appalling. I would like to teach them how to defend
themselves.”

The warrior looked gravely at her, as if reluctant to say what he was
thinking.

“Speak your mind, Kalliades,” she demanded.

“When the enemy armies come, lady, they will come in the thousands. A bow and
arrow will make little difference to a woman’s fate.” He looked down, unwilling
to meet her eye.

“You were at the palace siege,” she said to him.

“I was with the Mykene invaders, with Banokles. It is well known, but that
part of our lives is past.”

“I did not mention it to embarrass you. Did you see me there?”

He nodded. “With your bow you killed and injured many of our men.” He paused
and then said, “You were magnificent, lady.”

She blushed at his unexpected words.

“But,” he went on, “we Mykene came ready for hand-to-hand combat. There were
few bowmen in our ranks. Had there been, you would have been a dead woman.”

She accepted the truth of his words but said, “Kalliades, if you were being
attacked by armed men, would you rather be completely helpless or armed with a
bow?”

Kalliades nodded. “I will see you have the bows and arrows you need. It can
do no harm. How many?”

“There are more than thirty Women of the Horse in the city still.”

“I will let you have what we can spare. But we must not leave our bowmen
short.”

Deep in thought, Kalliades left the palace and strolled back through the
quiet city to the east wall. He followed it along to the East Tower, where he
climbed the steps to the battlements. Men of the Scamandrian regiment were
sitting around, talking quietly, eating, playing games of chance. Many were fast
sleep on the hard stones, as only veteran soldiers could sleep in the most
uncomfortable conditions.

Kalliades looked for Banokles, but there was no sign of his friend, so he
eased himself down, back against the battlements, legs outstretched. He sighed
and closed his eyes gratefully. He thought about Andromache’s words about
bowmen. It was not true, although there was nothing to be gained by arguing with
the woman. If he were unarmed and facing armed men, he would rely on his
strength and his skills as a fighter rather than on a flimsy bow. His distrust
of bowmen was deeply ingrained. The warriors of Mykene despised archers,
slingers, or anyone who fought from a distance. True warriors armed themselves
with sword or dagger, spear or lance, facing their enemies eye to eye. He
remembered Kolanos killing the great Argurios with a coward’s arrow, and even
after all this time, the gorge rose in his throat at the thought. He had asked
Father Zeus to curse Kolanos for that act. He smiled grimly, recalling Kolanos’
agonized death.

It did no harm giving serving women bows to play with, he thought. It would
keep them occupied and take their minds off their fate. And Andromache had been
right about one thing: It took only a single arrow to kill a king.

Kalliades gradually became conscious that someone was looking at him and
opened his eyes. A young soldier with floppy flaxen hair was standing in front
of him.