Fall of Kings (48 page)

“It is growing dark, and I am in no mood for riding again tonight,” Odysseus
said. “I will make camp here. I will wait for you until noon tomorrow. If you do
not come, I will return to the city alone.”

They both stood up, then embraced as old friends again. Odysseus clapped the
prince on his shoulder. “Come back to Troy with me!” he urged him. “Fight
Achilles! It will be the greatest fight we mortals have ever seen, and the name
of Hektor will be remembered to the end of eternity!”

The next day the king’s aide Polydorus sat in Priam’s gold-encrusted chariot
as it jolted through the city streets flanked by heavily armed riders. Beside
him the king was wrapped in a heavy wool cloak, although Polydorus was sweating
freely under his bronze armor in the stifling afternoon heat.

He shot a glance at the old man, who was peering around, his face a mask of
confusion and fear. It was the first time Priam had left his palace since the
beginning of summer, and much had changed, none of it for the better.

The king had announced his intention that morning of going to the Great Tower
of Ilion. Polydorus had found reason to postpone the visit, hoping that Priam
would forget about it, as he always had before. But this time the old man
persisted, and eventually the aide had the golden chariot brought to the gates.
He was fearful that the people would see their king addled and bemused, and he
ordered the charioteer to make all speed to the tower and to stop for nothing
even if the king ordered it.

“I do not know this city,” Priam muttered anxiously as the gleaming chariot
passed the squalid shacks of the refugees. “Where are we, boy? Is this Ugarit?
We must make haste for home. My sons are conspiring against me. They wish to see
me dead. I do not trust Troilus, never did. Hekabe warned me. She will know how
to deal with him.”

Polydorus said nothing, and the king became quiet, gazing around at a city
that was foreign to him. There were few people to be seen on the streets,
although Polydorus knew that the shanty city hid hundreds dying slowly of
hunger, thirst, and hopelessness. Babies and old people were the first to
succumb. When the last well ran dry, which he knew could happen at any time,
everyone in the city would be dead within three or four days.

They reached the steps to the south battlements. Priam was helped out of the
chariot and climbed slowly, his bodyguard in full armor clattering up the stairs
in front of him and behind. Soldiers guarding the wall watched open-mouthed as
their king shuffled past them. A few cheered, but the sound died away quickly to
leave an eerie silence.

Plunging into the darkness of the great tower, Polydorus looked up the narrow
stone stairs with dread lying heavy on his chest. But Priam had climbed that way
a thousand times, and his steps were firm as he set off. Polydorus came behind
him, his gaze fixed on the old man’s bony ankles and not on the steep drop to
their right. He knew that if the king fell, they both would. Polydorus would try
to save him, of course, but it would be impossible. They would both die, smashed
on the stones far below. The old man stopped halfway up and rested against the
dank wall, then took a deep breath and carried on.

When they stepped out into the daylight again, Polydorus breathed a sigh of
relief. It was a rare day in Troy when the wind did not blow, yet the air was
quite still on the top of the tower. The sky above was pale blue and cloudless.

Priam pulled his cloak more closely around him and stepped over to the south
wall. He gazed down at the ruined lower town, his face blank. He looked into the
distance. Suddenly he pointed and commented, “Hektor is coming.”

Polydorus looked to where he was pointing and saw two horsemen riding at a
walking pace from the Scamander plain toward the lower town. He could see that
one of them was a big man, as big as Hektor, riding a black horse, but he could
see neither man’s face.

“My son. My son is coming,” the old man said happily.

Polydorus’ thoughts went to his own son, as they always did when they were
allowed to. The boy was still at the breast, and the young aide found himself
breathless when he thought of the boy, his wispy dark hair, his soft dimpled
cheeks and happy smile. Polydorus had made his decision long since. When the
city fell, he would abandon the old man to his fate and hurry to Casilla and the
boy. He would defend them with his life. It was all he could do.

“Who is that with him?” the king asked.

Polydorus peered again at the riders. They were crossing the wide new bridge
the enemy had built over the fortification ditch. In the silent afternoon he
fancied he could hear hooves clopping on the wooden planks. With a jolt, he
realized it
was
Hektor, riding casually, one hand on his reins, one
holding his high crested helm in front of him. Beside him rode the king of
Ithaka. What is Hektor doing riding into the enemy camp? he thought.

“Odysseus!” the old man cried, waving his fist. “Treacherous dog! Cut the
head from his shoulders, my son! Kill the cur!”

Now there were cries and shouts from below, and men started appearing from
the shadows of the ruins. Hundreds of soldiers—Mykene, Thessalians, and
mercenaries alike—were running to the main street where Hektor rode. They lined
up on each side of his path, watching as the Trojan prince passed, Odysseus
riding by his side. There were some jeers, but they were smothered quickly. Then
there was silence as the two riders made their way up to the Scaean Gate.

Polydorus hurried to the side of the tower that looked down on the gate.
There stood a huge dark-haired man in black armor. Polydorus knew immediately
who he was. What is happening? he thought.

There was a brief conversation among the three men in front of the gates, and
then Achilles stepped aside and walked away, apparently satisfied. Hektor looked
up, and his voice boomed out. “Open the gate! Hektor, prince of Troy, commands
it!”

Polydorus ran to the inward side of the tower and leaned far over the
battlements.

“Open the gate!” he shouted down to the guards. “Hektor has returned! Open
the gate now!”

Andromache was resting on a couch on the east terrace when the distant sound
of cheering came to her ears. She sat up and glanced at Axa, who gazed at her in
puzzlement. They both rose and went to the terrace wall but could see nothing
from the vantage point. The cheering was getting louder all the time.

“I will go and find out what is happening,” she told her maid.

“Perhaps the enemy has left and we are saved,” Axa ventured.

“Maybe,” Andromache replied doubtfully, and left her apartments and hurried
through the palace.

Outside the Royal Guard also was uncertain about what was happening. They had
unsheathed their swords, ready for action. Then Polites appeared with his
bodyguard, looking alarmed.

“Why is there cheering, Polites?” Andromache asked, but he shook his head.

Then a rider galloped up the stone streets toward them. He threw himself off
his horse and cried, “Prince Hektor is back, lord! He is here in the city!”

The sound of cheering came closer, and now Andromache could hear the words
repeated over and over: “Hektor! Hektor! HEKTOR!”

Hope blossomed in her heart, immediately followed by a stab of fear. The
summer had been tedious but uneventful. Although the enemy was at the gates, it
was impossible to stay frightened all the time, and eventually a complacent calm
set in as long hot day followed long hot day. Now the wheel of events was
starting to turn again, and something inside her told Andromache that this was
the beginning of the end.

When her husband finally came in sight, walking his horse slowly up toward
the king’s palace, he was surrounded by a mob of cheering Trojans. Soldiers had
formed a circle of protection around him, but people kept trying to break
through in a bid to touch his robe or sandals. The black horse fidgeted
nervously, but Hektor kept him walking steadily on a tight rein. As he reached
the palace, the Royal Guard pushed the mob back, but the people continued
shouting his name and cheering.

Hektor smiled when he saw Andromache and reined in his horse. He dismounted
wearily, then embraced her, holding a hand out to his brother. “Andromache.
Polites. It is good to see you both.”

“We thank the gods you are here, Hektor,” Polites replied. “But why and how?
You come unlooked for.”

Hektor shook his head. “I must speak to Father first.”

“But Father is not well,” Polites told him.

“I know,” Hektor countered, sorrow in his voice. “Nevertheless, he is still
the king, and I must speak to him first.”

He gripped Andromache’s hand tightly for a heartbeat, then let her go and
turned and walked toward the king’s palace with his brother. Andromache returned
to her apartments, her mind in a whirl. Waiting never had come easy to her, and
she found herself pacing up and down the terrace, restless with uncertainty and
anticipation. The sky darkened, and the two boys went to their beds, but still
Hektor had not come.

Finally the door opened with a whisper, and he was there, dressed in an old
gray tunic and threadbare cloak. She ran into his arms. He held her for a while,
his face pressed deep into her hair. Then she looked up at him and said,
smiling, “On the bank of the Simoeis I told you we would meet again.”

Gazing into her eyes, his face grave, he told her, “There is to be a duel,
Andromache.”

She took a deep breath and asked, “It’s with Achilles, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “I killed his friend Patroklos, you see, and he wants vengeance.”

She found anger surging up inside her and pulled away from his embrace. “This
is not a game, husband! This
friend
of his came here, like Achilles, to
plunder the city, to kill and to maim. Do you owe it to Achilles to fight him
because you killed his friend? Hektor, you have killed hundreds in battle since
this war started. Do you have to fight all their friends, too?” She heard the
heavy sarcasm in her voice and hated herself for it, but she could not stop
herself. “This is a grand nonsense, husband!”

He opened his mouth to speak, and she cried, “And do not say the word ‘honor’
to me! I am sick and tired of that word. It seems to me that honor means
whatever you men want it to mean.”

Hektor watched her until her rage subsided a little. “If I fight Achilles,
they will let our women and children go. Agamemnon has pledged this, and
Odysseus guaranteed it.”

“And you believe them?” she asked, but her anger had weakened, and she could
lean on it no more. “Will Astyanax be taken to safety?”

He shook his head sadly. “If they had agreed to
that,
I would not have
trusted them.”

“This is still a grand nonsense,” she repeated sadly.

“What is wrong, Andromache?” he asked gently.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. What is wrong with me? she thought.
My husband returns to me, having secured the lives of Trojan women and children,
yet I am shouting at him like a fishwife.

She smiled at him. “I’m sorry, my love. But what happens if Achilles kills
you? Will Agamemnon then keep his word? Why would he?”

He explained. “The gates will be opened at dawn, and the women and children
allowed to leave. They will be escorted to the Bay of Herakles, where they will
take ship for Lesbos. The gates will close again at noon, when the duel will
start. So Achilles and I will not meet until after the innocents are freed.”

“Can you win?”

“I have beaten everyone who has ever come against me. And I have beaten
Achilles before. You were there.”

“Yes, it was brutal.”

He nodded. “Fistfights can be like that. This will be a duel to the death
with swords.”

Her blood ran cold as she thought of it. “It must be quick,” she told him,
thinking back to Helikaon’s duel with Persion.

“Yes.” He nodded. “The longer it goes on, the more likely he is to kill me.
He is very skilled, very fast, and he is younger than I am. But he has
weaknesses. Pride and vanity are his constant companions. They are unreliable
friends and often give bad advice.”

“That is not very reassuring,” she said, smiling slightly.

He shook his head. “It is all I have to offer, Andromache.”

Hektor called for food. He ate a meal of salt fish and corn bread, and they
both sipped wine as they talked deep into the night. She told him of the
desperate situation in Troy, the fact that the entire city now relied for water
on one unreliable well, and the dire state of the granaries. They discussed the
successes of the
Xanthos
and those of the Trojan Horse. He asked about
Astyanax, and she made him laugh by telling him the trivial gossip of the
palace.

At last Hektor, weary beyond words, threw himself on the bed and was
instantly asleep. Andromache watched him for a while, her heart aching. Then she
walked back out onto the terrace.

The moon was riding high, and she stood looking at it for a while. Then she
did something she had not done since she had left the sanctuary of Thera. She
prayed to her own special deity, Artemis the moon goddess.

“O Lady of the Wild Things,” she pleaded, “protector of small children, take
pity on your sister, and protect my husband tomorrow. Guard him so that he can
return to guard his son.”

Then she lay on the couch listening to the night sounds of the city and
eventually drifted into a troubled sleep.

It was daylight when she was woken abruptly by a shrill cry. She leaped up,
startled, and rushed indoors. There she found little Astyanax standing in the
doorway to his bedchamber, gazing up in fear at Hektor, who had donned his
bronze armor, including the high helm with its black-and-white crest.

Hektor laughed and pulled off the helm again. “Don’t be frightened, boy.” He
knelt in front of the child and picked him up, holding him in front of his face.
“See, you remember me. I am your father.”