Fall of Kings (50 page)

Blood was streaming from both men now, and Hektor was tiring. Odysseus could
see it. Achilles could see it, too. He tried a feint, followed by a lunge to the
heart. Hektor parried it and sent a return cut that pierced Achilles beneath the
collarbone, slicing open the skin.

Suddenly Achilles staggered.

He fell to one knee, shaking his head. Hektor rushed in, and Achilles rolled
and tried to stand. Hektor paused, sword ready for the killing blow. With a
massive effort Achilles got to his knees, then fell again. Hektor stepped back
two paces, frowning. Then Achilles sprang to the attack like a man demented.
Abandoning any attempt at defense, he launched a savage assault that backed
Hektor across the arena.

Hektor defended grimly, his back ever closer to the perilous trench. Then,
suddenly, Achilles fell again, his legs collapsing under him.

There were sounds of jeering from the top of the wall. At an order from
Agamemnon, the makeshift bridge was thrown across the trench, and the priest of
Ares hurried across to the two exhausted fighters. He took Hektor’s sword from
his unresisting hand and sniffed at the blade. Then he raised the weapon aloft.

“Poison!” he shouted. “This blade has been smeared with poison! Achilles has
been betrayed by the Trojan!”

“Treachery!” Agamemnon cried, and the cry was taken up angrily by the
Myrmidons and the soldiers of Mykene. “Treachery!”

“Lies!” boomed Hektor’s voice, and the word was echoed all along the walls.

“Kill the treacherous dog!” Agamemnon yelled, and before Hektor could arm
himself, three Followers raced across the bridge to attack him. Hektor ducked
under the first sword cut, then smashed the Follower in the face with his huge
fist. As the Mykene went down, Hektor snatched his sword and lanced it into the
neck of the next attacker. The third Follower died from a sword thrust through
the eye socket.

Achilles’ Myrmidons were trapped on the far side of the trench, with no way
across, surrounded by warriors packed eight deep. Enraged by the betrayal of
their king, all they could do, like those on the walls, was watch helplessly.
The soldiers around the circle, their blood already high, were shouting and
jostling, and fistfights were breaking out at the back.

Odysseus desperately worked his way through the crowd, cursing, pushing,
elbowing a path to where the priest of Ares had retreated with Hektor’s sword.

With three Followers dead, Agamemnon sent in the rest of his elite guard.
Gravely wounded, Hektor saw the nine coming toward him, picked up a second
sword, and attacked. But even he could not stand against so many. He slashed one
across the throat. Another went down with a sword in his belly. Hektor snatched
up another blade, but the warriors surrounded him, and he was getting weaker by
the moment.

Then, amazingly, Achilles stirred and moved. He struggled to his knees, then
stood. His face was gray with pain and the effects of the poison. The crowd
instantly went silent, and the skirmishes on the edge of the crowd ceased.

Achilles swayed on his feet. “Not… Hektor,” he gasped.

Then he slowly raised his sword and slammed it into the throat of one of the
Followers. Agamemnon’s remaining men sprang to the attack, and Hektor and
Achilles stood back to back to take them all on.

The thousands of watchers were awestruck as the two blood-covered warriors,
both beyond hope of life, battled against seven of Agamemnon’s elite. Hektor was
bleeding from a score of cuts, and one arm was so badly injured that it no
longer was functioning. It was impossible that Achilles was still standing, let
alone fighting. The end was inevitable. Yet it seemed neither champion would
allow himself to fall while there were still enemies to fight.

Odysseus, panting and cursing, finally reached the priest, who watched the
battle, his eyes alight with pleasure. Odysseus grabbed him by the throat and,
with a roar, lifted him from his feet. The priest grappled panic-stricken in the
king’s powerful grip, his face turning red. Odysseus delved in the pouch at the
man’s side and brought forth a small gold vial. He dropped the priest.

“Enough!” he bellowed, his voice like thunder above the noise of battle.

The fighting in the circle paused, and the three Followers who were still
alive stepped back uncertainly. Odysseus prized open the phial, which was
half-filled with milky liquid. He sniffed it. “Here is your treachery!” he
shouted, holding it up. “And here is your poisoner!” He pushed the priest
forward.

Agamemnon strode up and snatched the poison phial. “What is this?” he asked,
his voice shaking with genuine anger.

“It is called
atropa,
” Odysseus replied, raising his voice so that
everyone could hear. “It is used by the Scythians of the Somber Sea to dip their
arrows in. It causes dizziness, raving, paralysis, and death. It is an evil
poison, a coward’s weapon.”

“You dog!” Agamemnon grabbed the poisoned sword and plunged it into the
priest’s belly. The force of the blow knocked the man down onto the hot coals.
He started to shriek, his robes bursting into flames around him. Within moments
his desperate thrashing ceased, and his blackening body was still.

In the arena Hektor fell to his knees with a groan that echoed off the walls
of Troy, blood streaming from a score of wounds. Achilles, still standing only
by a massive feat of will, raised his sword and, with a last cry, plunged it
into the chest of a Follower. Then he fell dead to the ground. The remaining two
Followers looked to Agamemnon, uncertain what to do.

With a final effort Hektor picked up Achilles’ sword with trembling fingers
and placed it on the warrior’s breast, then closed the dead hands over the hilt.
He rested on his heels and bowed his head. Odysseus heard his final sigh. Then
there was silence.

Hektor was dead.

His heart breaking, Odysseus sank to one knee. Across the circle he saw
Thibo, Achilles’ shield bearer, do the same thing, followed by all the
Myrmidons. Then, one by one, every man around the battleground knelt in tribute
to the two great warriors.

Only Agamemnon stood alone. He turned angrily on his heel and stalked away.

Odysseus bowed his head, sick at heart for the part he had played in the
deaths of the two great warriors. Then in the quiet he heard a hissing sound. In
the trench before him the dying coals were giving off small spurts of steam.
Odysseus raised his eyes to the sky. Unnoticed by anyone as the titanic battle
had gone on, thunderclouds had gathered overhead. It became darker as he
watched. Then there was a deafening crack of thunder, and a bolt of lightning
flashed through the sky above Troy’s walls. The skies opened, and the rain
poured down.

He had no idea how long he knelt there in the rain and mud. Eventually
Odysseus became aware that people were moving about. He opened his eyes wearily.
The Myrmidons were gathered around Achilles, preparing to take him away.

Odysseus levered himself to his feet and walked across to the arena.
Red-bearded Thibo was standing by Hektor’s body.

“You will return Hektor to his city?” Odysseus asked.

“I will, King,” the warrior said. “Had he lived, great Achilles would have
treated his fallen foe with honor. Then I will take my Myrmidons, and we will
sail home. Our king will go to the pyre, but not in this accursed place.”

Odysseus nodded. He suddenly realized that the men around him had fallen
silent, and the only sound was the rain drumming on metal armor. He looked up
and saw Andromache. She was walking toward them alone through the rain, dressed
in a robe of scarlet flame, her face stern, her head high.

She came up to him. She was ashen-faced and her hair was plastered to her
head and shoulders, yet he thought her then the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen. Helikaon was right, he thought. Truly you are a goddess.

She looked down on Hektor’s body, and when she looked up at him again, her
eyes were brimming with tears. “Well, Tale Spinner, are you happy with this
day’s work?”

“Two of my friends are dead. What would you have me say, lass?”

“That this will all end now, and you will return to your ships and go home.”

“I will return to my ships and go home.”

She arched her eyebrows, unbelieving. “Truly?”

He told her, “Ithaka is leaving this place. I do not believe the priest chose
to poison the blade which killed Achilles.” He glanced inquiringly at Thibo, who
nodded his head.

“I suspect Agamemnon’s hand behind this,” Thibo agreed. “It was an evil act.”

Odysseus told Andromache, “This is Thibo of the Myrmidons. He will see that
Hektor’s body is returned to the city with honor. Then he will take Achilles’
army and go home to Thessaly. And I will be back with Penelope and my new son
come the Feast of Demeter.”

He saw hope in Andromache’s gray eyes and was quick to quash it.

“We once made a pact, you and I, to tell each other only the truth,” he said.
She nodded, remembering the Bay of Blue Owls where they first had met.
“Agamemnon will not return home with his armies and fleets. Troy will fall,
Andromache. The rain will not save you. In truth, it means only that everyone in
the city will be slaughtered before they die of thirst.”

She caught her breath at his harsh words.

“Troy cannot be saved.” He glanced at the listening soldiers and looked into
her eyes. “But if you wish to save your son,” he told her, “look to the north.”

He turned away and left her standing grief-stricken in the rain.

Agamemnon was furious. He strode down the road to his palace, flanked by his
Mykene guard and the last two Followers. Can no one follow a simple plan? he
thought. The priest was supposed to smear poison on the blade unnoticed as
everyone watched the battle, then drop the phial into the hot coals. Instead,
greed had made him keep it, and greed had been his undoing. And as for that
interfering oaf Odysseus, it was well past time to do something about him. His
nuisance value now outweighed his usefulness.

Agamemnon swept into the
megaron,
where the kings already were
gathering, quaffing goblets of wine cheerfully. When they saw him, their
demeanor changed to watchfulness. He knew they found him hard to predict, and
that pleased him.

He looked around, then sighed and shook his head. “Our great Achilles is
dead,” he said sorrowfully. “Our champion felled by treachery.”

Kygones of Lykia was watching him narrowly. “Yes, a tragedy for us all,” he
commented drily.

“I heard the Myrmidons say they will leave now and take his body home,”
Menelaus slurred. He had been swigging unwatered wine for much of the day.

“We do not need the Myrmidons. All the more plunder for the rest of us,”
Idomeneos said with relish.

The doors opened, and Odysseus came in, followed by old Nestor. The Ithakan
king stomped up to Agamemnon, his face red with anger.

“Convince me, King,” Odysseus stormed, “that you did not command the poxy
priest to poison Hektor’s sword!”

Agamemnon replied smoothly, “This is madness, Odysseus. Why would I poison
our own champion?”

“Because, by the great god Zeus, one death was never enough for you. You
wanted them both dead! And if Achilles’ blade was poisoned and he lived to find
out, then he would have killed you himself, as I am minded to do myself for
today’s foul deeds.”

Agamemnon leaped back and drew his sword, and his Followers moved to his
side, blades at the ready. The Battle King was well prepared to fight. To see
the meddlesome Odysseus lying on the floor with his lifeblood pumping out was
something he long had hoped for. Around them the other kings had their hands to
their sword hilts, yet, Agamemnon realized with shock, at least two of them, old
Nestor and Menestheos of Athens, were glaring at
him.

He took a deep breath, sheathed his sword, and said placatingly, “You are
misled by your grief, Odysseus. This is a day of tragedy for all of us. Our
champion Achilles is walking the Dark Road. We will never see his like again.”
The words of the dying priest in the Cave of Wings came back to him. “The Age of
Heroes is passing,” he added.

“By all the bastard gods, I am sick of it all,” Odysseus told him. “I will
take my army and return to the bay tonight. At dawn we sail for Ithaka.”

Agamemnon felt a flood of relief and pleasure. The fat fool is leaving at
last, he thought. The gods must truly love the Mykene.

Instead he said coldly, “So your pledge to me is worthless, Ithaka.”

“It was not the pledge that was worthless but the recipient,” Odysseus
replied scornfully.

Nestor stepped in before Agamemnon could react. “My army will leave Troy,
too. I am an old man, and I wish to see no more killing, no more death,” he
said. “I will start for Pylos come daybreak.”

Agamemnon turned on him. “Your betrayal will not be forgotten, old man,” he
spit. “You remain king only on my suffrance. When the troops of Mykene return
home in triumph, be prepared to defend your flax fields and sandy beaches.”

Nestor flushed and countered angrily, “Do not seek to threaten me, Agamemnon.
My sons are dead because of the dread Helikaon, but I have strong grandsons
aplenty. If your troops march on our borders, they will be waiting for you there
with sharp swords.

“
If
you ever return to the Lion’s Hall,” he added. “There are a myriad
of leaves on the tree and a myriad of ways to die,” he quoted.

“You pious old fool,” Idomeneos snapped. “Even the gods are tired of your
pompous advice and your tedious tales about when you were a young warrior. We
will be better off without you.”

There was violence in the air. Odysseus glanced at his old friend Meriones.
He was the only man in the
megaron
who had not drawn his sword. The
Ithakan king guessed that his friend felt the way he did, but Meriones’ loyalty
to Idomeneos was legendary.