Fall of Kings (49 page)

Astyanax grinned with delight and cried, “Papa! Did you bring my pony?”

“Not yet, boy. When you are a bit older, you will have the pony I promised.”

The child reached out and ran his small finger along the lines of the golden
horse embossed on Hektor’s breastplate. “Like this, Papa?”

“Yes, just like this one.” Hektor looked at Andromache, and there was anguish
in his eyes as he held the boy close to him. He shook his head, and Andromache
knew what he was thinking.

“Many other men’s sons will live because of what you do today, my love,” she
reassured him.

He breathed a deep sigh, looking down on the child’s flame-colored hair. “It
is not enough,” he answered. “I can never do enough.”

As dawn cast its pink rays over the city, the massive Scaean Gate swung open
a crack and a small girl toddled out. She was scarcely more than a baby, with
big blue eyes and golden curls. When she saw the armed men lined up outside, she
stopped in surprise, then sat down suddenly. Sitting in the dust she started to
wail.

A young woman followed her through the gates, crying, “Susa, I told you to
wait for me!” She saw the enemy soldiers, and her face went ashen, but she ran
forward and picked up the child. She carried a shapeless bag of belongings under
one arm, and she tucked the crying girl under the other. Then she looked around.

Odysseus stepped forward. “You know where you are going, woman?”

She nodded, bobbing her head nervously.

“Then go!” he roared, pointing down the road that led through the lower town
and across the Scamander plain to the safety of the sea.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, passing him, head down. “Thank you, lord.”

Next through the gates was a skinny old crone with two children, a boy and a
girl, held tightly by their hands. She glared when she saw the soldiers and
hurried past the watching ranks as quickly as possible.

As more women came out from the gate, Odysseus signaled to his Ithakan riders
to accompany the exodus toward the Bay of Herakles. One trotted his horse up to
the first woman and, leaning from his mount, picked up the crying toddler by one
arm and lifted her up in front of him. The girl stopped wailing instantly,
startled into silence.

Throughout the morning there was a continuous stream of refugees out of the
city until, Odysseus guessed, the line of them stretched all the way from the
Scaean Gate to the bay. There were a few donkey carts and a couple of
starved-looking horses, but most of the women walked. There were wives with
small children and some young women traveling in groups, but many of the
refugees were sturdy older women, soldiers’ wives and camp followers who were
used to walking long distances behind moving armies. They did not pale when they
passed the enemy warriors; they marched with their heads high.

Odysseus glanced at Agamemnon from time to time. Tall and stooped in his
black cloak, the Mykene king was standing watching the refugees. Odysseus was
reminded of a hungry vulture deprived of its prey. Alongside him was a thin,
swarthy man called Dolon. Each time a woman or child with red hair came out of
the gates, Agamemnon would look at Dolon, who would shake his head. Odysseus
knew the man once had played a role in the Trojan royal household and guessed he
would be well rewarded for this day’s work.

Long before noon the trickle of refugees from the gate stopped. There was an
expectant silence among the waiting soldiers, then finally Hektor himself walked
out. He was in full armor of bronze, his black-and-white crested helm held under
one arm and four swords in the other hand. He looked twice the size of any of
the men around him, and he gazed at them without expression. The Scaean Gate
closed behind him, and they all heard the locking bar being rammed firmly into
place.

Odysseus walked up to the prince, who asked him, “Will they be safe, sea
uncle?”

The king nodded. “You have my word. The first ones to leave are already on
Kypriot ships. The masters have been well paid to take them to Lesbos. And many
will have enough rings for passage far away from here.”

Hektor’s face was grave, and Odysseus could see the tension around his eyes.

“Then let’s get on with it,” he said.

Followed by hundreds of warriors, the two walked around the walls to the west
of the city. There the wall was lowest, and the people of Troy could watch the
combat from the battlements. A wide area of ground had been leveled off during
the night, and a huge circular trench dug, wider than a man could leap across.
It was filled with glowing coals, and the heat rising from them made the air
shimmer. The arena of combat inside the trench was more than fifty paces wide,
and Odysseus knew the ground had been scrutinized closely for loose pebbles that
could make a fighter lose his footing. Thousands of soldiers were gathering
around the circle, six to eight deep, jostling for a vantage point. The ones at
the back pushed forward; those at the front tried to stay back from the heat of
the coals.

Achilles was waiting alongside the priest of Ares. He was garbed in his black
armor and helm, and if he noticed the heat, he did not show it. There were four
swords at his feet, as agreed. Hektor checked the straps on his breastplate,
then put on his helm. He placed his swords on the ground by the priest. Odysseus
noticed that the hilts of Hektor’s swords were incised with the horse insignia
of the house of Priam.

The thin dark-clad priest raised his hands and cried out in a reedy voice, “O
Ares, lord of war, man killer, bringer of glory, hear our words. Look on these
two great warriors. Each has served you well, O hater of mankind. Today, if you
will it, one will stalk the sunlit Fields of Elysium. The name of the other will
echo down the halls of history, and all men will honor him for eternity.”

Two scrawny goats were dragged up, and the priest cut their throats with a
curved knife as they cried out in fear. Their blood splashed on the ground,
drying instantly on the hot earth.

A huge plank of wood—a door, Odysseus guessed—doused in water was thrown over
the trench as a bridge. The two champions each picked up a blade, then walked
across the bridge, steam from the coals rising around them. The bridge was
withdrawn. Odysseus looked up at the western wall. It was packed with silent
watchers. There were thousands of spectators at this death match, but they were
so quiet, all he could hear was the two men’s footsteps as they walked to the
center of the arena.

They touched swords in salute. Then they circled. Achilles attacked first
with lightning speed, and Hektor blocked and parried, sending back a blistering
riposte that made Achilles step back. They circled again, watching each other’s
eyes.

“Will you wager with me, Odysseus?” asked his kinsman Nestor, king of Pylos,
who was standing beside him. “Our great Achilles against your friend Hektor?”

“I am proud to call Hektor my friend, but I will not wager on him,” Odysseus
replied. “By Hera’s tits, even the gods will not gamble on this battle.”

Hektor hacked and thrust; Achilles parried and countered. Suddenly Achilles
launched a ferocious attack, his blade moving like quicksilver. Hektor blocked
it, then spun on his heel and hit Achilles in the face with the back of his
fist. Achilles stumbled, righted himself, and swiftly brought up his blade to
parry a death thrust to the neck. His riposte was so fast that Hektor threw
himself to the ground, rolled, and was up again in an instant. They circled
again.

Odysseus watched spellbound as the duel continued. Both fighters were endowed
with natural balance and speed. Both had honed their skills in a thousand
battles. Achilles was the younger man, yet he had spent all his short life
seeking fights. Hektor battled and killed only when he had to. Both men fought
coolly and with patience. Each knew that the slightest misjudgment could end his
life. Each probed for weaknesses in the other; each tried to read the other’s
moves.

The pace quickened, and the swords clashed in a whirl of glittering bronze.
Attacking with controlled fury, Achilles forced Hektor back toward the fiery
trench. They had to move carefully there, for the edges of the trench were
crumbling in the heat. Hektor’s foot slipped. The crowd on the wall gasped.
Achilles lunged. Hektor parried, regained his footing, and sent a flashing
riposte that slid off Achilles’ breastplate. Both men stepped back, as if by
consent, toward the center of the circle.

Odysseus knew that most duels began with heat and fury, then settled down to
a game of endurance and concentration. No two duelists were exactly matched; all
knew this. And there would always come a point when the seed of doubt entered
the mind of one fighter: Is he better than I am? In this duel both men wanted to
win. But was the difference between them that Achilles feared losing? Hektor had
no such fear. Indeed, Odysseus wondered if it was Hektor’s weakness that at his
core he did not care if he lived or died.

Achilles attacked again. Hektor ducked beneath a murderous cut, his blade
flashing out and slicing Achilles’ cheek. Achilles stepped back a pace, wiping
blood from his face, and Hektor allowed himself a heartbeat’s pause.

Then Hektor attacked. Achilles blocked the sword, rolled his wrist, and
lanced his blade into the meat of Hektor’s shoulder. Hektor swayed back,
preventing the point from thrusting deeply, but his sword fell from his numbed
hand. The crowd gasped, and several people on the wall cried out. Achilles moved
back two paces and gestured to the Trojan warrior to pick up the weapon.

As Hektor’s hand touched his sword, Achilles leaped at him, blade flashing
for his head. Hektor blocked the blow with incredible speed but was forced back
by the ferocious double-handed assault. Time and again Achilles was within a
hairbreadth of delivering the death blow, but each attack was countered with
amazing skill.

The long afternoon wore on, but the crowd was totally absorbed, totally
silent, motionless in the monstrous heat.

A lightning thrust, partly parried, had opened up another cut on Achilles’
cheek. Hektor was suffering from cuts and gashes on both arms. Each had blunted
or broken two blades, which were replaced instantly by the black-robed priest
who tossed them with practiced accuracy into the fighters’ hands.

Odysseus could see that both men’s sword arms were tiring. They circled more
warily, conserving strength. Hektor leaped forward. Their blades clashed
together, and a high sweet note rose unexpectedly from the dull clash of bronze.

Achilles’ sword thrust past the Trojan’s defenses, hammering into the bronze
strap holding his breastplate. It sprang off harmlessly, but the power of the
blow sent Hektor staggering. Unbalanced, he swung at Achilles’ legs. His sword
rang off a metal greave, but Hektor stumbled. Achilles hit him across the head
with the pommel of his sword. Hektor ducked and rolled, more slowly now, then
was up to counter a renewed attack.

Hektor stumbled again, his fatigue obvious. Watching him, Odysseus smiled to
himself. It was a ploy he had used himself, available only to the older man in a
contest. Achilles leaped forward, certain of the death blow. Hektor swayed away
from the thrust. The sword passed his side, just under the lip of his
breastplate. Achilles was wrong-footed, expecting a solid target. Hektor smashed
the hilt of his sword into the back of his head, and Achilles went down. He
rolled to his back just in time to block a massive sword blow to his face. The
blades clanged together with a sound that echoed off the walls of Troy like the
end of the world.

And Hektor’s blade snapped.

Achilles was rolling to his feet as the priest of Ares threw Hektor a third
sword. The new blade flashed forward, but Achilles blocked it with ease and sent
a counter that tore through the leather kilt, narrowly missing Hektor’s inner
thigh. Hektor returned the attack with a lightning riposte, his sword ripping
into Achilles’ helm. Achilles fell back and shook his head as if to clear it.

Hektor attacked. Achilles parried, and Hektor struck out with his left fist.
Achilles swayed away from the blow and sent an uppercut to Hektor’s jaw. Hektor
rolled with the punch and spun away as Achilles’ sword sang through empty air.

Achilles stepped back and took the moment to lift clear his damaged helm. He
walked over to the edge of the circle and threw it far out over the heads of the
watchers. Hektor dropped his sword, wrenched off his own helm, and tossed it
into the crowd. Bare-headed, he picked up his sword again. Then, with a roar, he
ran across the circle.

Achilles raced in, holding his blade double-handed. Hektor ducked swiftly,
and the sword hissed over his head. Off balance, Achilles stumbled to the earth.
He rolled twice, then smoothly rose to his feet. Then in a frenzied attack he
landed blow after blow on Hektor’s bronze breastplate. A great crack appeared
down the center of the golden horse. The Trojan ripped at the remaining bronze
strap and threw the breastplate to the ground. Achilles paused and then did the
same thing with his black cuirass.

The crowd fell silent as the two men fought on bare-chested, sweat pouring
off them. Odysseus watched, caught between admiration and horror. He had seen
many fights in his life, most of them a dull exchange of huge blows without
skill or forethought. This was a titanic struggle of strength and skill such as
no man watching ever had seen before or would see again.

Neither champion spoke a word as far as Odysseus could hear. Taunts and
insults were for lesser men. Each warrior was holding his concentration in a
viselike grip, planning ahead, trying to predict the other’s moves.

Achilles’ sword sliced across Hektor’s chest, sending a spray of blood flying
through the air. Hektor groaned, and the sound was echoed by those on top of the
wall and many of the watchers outside the circle. Achilles leaped in for the
kill. Hektor swayed to the right, and his blade flashed out. Achilles threw
himself back, but not before Hektor’s sword had opened a wound in his side.