Fall of Kings (58 page)

Helikaon remembered that Priam had had the doors renewed after the previous
siege. They were fashioned from three layers of oak, cross-grained, reinforced
with metal bars that locked into holes in the floor and ceiling. It was unlikely
they could be forced, only hacked slowly to pieces.

“The king?” he asked.

“Priam and all his sons are dead. Astyanax is king.”

Andromache cast Helikaon an agonized glance and looked toward the window. He
nodded. “I have a duty here,” he told her. “Then we will save the children.”

The warriors walked through the palace to the
megaron,
where Helikaon
was proud to see order and calm, though the air was thick with the scent of
death. There were a hundred heavily armored soldiers, most of them wounded and
bloodstained, all so exhausted that they barely could stand. A few stood facing
the doors, where even now the wood was starting to splinter under the heavy
heads of axes. Most sat or lay, conserving their energy, too tired to speak. But
one of them, in the armor of an Eagle, scrambled up as they passed.

“Helikaon!” he cried.

Helikaon turned and smiled. “Polydorus, it is pleasant to see you alive.”

“Have your brought an army, my friend?”

“No. I bring only my sword.”

“Then you bring us hope. There is little enough here now.”

Helikaon nodded. Looking down, he saw horse droppings on the floor. He
frowned. “Horses?” he asked.

Banokles grinned. “There are a few left. I’ve had them locked away somewhere
safe.”

“Who commands here?” Helikaon asked. “Lucan?”

Banokles shook his head and grunted. “Lucan fell at the Scaean Gate. Tough
old bastard. Thought he’d live forever.”

He told Helikaon curtly, “You’re the only king on this side of those doors.”

But Helikaon shook his head. “You have fought for this city all summer,
General. You know every man here and what he is capable of. You command here. I
am just a foot soldier, Banokles. My sword and my life are yours.”

Banokles sighed and shot a glance at Kalliades, who threw his head back and
laughed. The laughter rang around the
megaron,
and men turned their heads
at the unaccustomed sound. “Tell us your plan, then, General,” Kalliades asked
his friend, grinning.

“There are thousands of the bastards, most of them Mykene veterans,” Banokles
replied. “Not one soft-bellied puker among them. We’re just a hundred. When the
thunder rolls, they’ll have the better of us. But by the bloody spear of Ares
we’ll make them pay for every step they take!”

The hundred defenders stood in line three deep facing the doors. In the front
two lines were the last of the Eagles. Front and center was Helikaon, wearing
the armor of a Royal Eagle, with Banokles and Kalliades. Behind them stood
Polydorus. Out in front, on either side of the doors, were two Thrakian archers.

Andromache was on the gallery watching them, bow in hand. She remembered the
last time the four men had been together in this
megaron,
when Banokles
and Kalliades had fought for the Mykene and Helikaon and Polydorus had defended
the stairs. She wondered at the irony of life and the tyrannical whims of the
gods that had brought them together again.

She could see Helikaon’s profile and saw him turn his head briefly to glimpse
her. She wondered if this would be her last sight of him alive. She knew he had
come there with the intention of rescuing her. Yet once here, he could not leave
friends and comrades to fight on without him. In the heat of the battle he would
forget about her and her boys. For a moment only she felt sorry for herself. To
be in his arms once again and then to have him snatched away by duty and loyalty
seemed so cruel. Then she hardened her heart. Helikaon must follow his duty, and
he would live or die.
Her
duty this day was to fight until the battle was
lost, then escape with her sons somehow down the cliff. She thought again of
Kassandra’s words, “
We will meet again, Sister, before the end,
” and took
courage from their message.

The ax heads tearing relentlessly at the heavy oak doors finally had cut a
hole. She could see movement on the other side. Then she saw Banokles step
forward from the front line, hefting a lance, and with astonishing accuracy and
strength throw it through the gap. There was an explosion of curses on the other
side, and the Trojans all cheered. The cry was taken up all around the
megaron:
“Banokles! Banokles! BANOKLES!”

Then the hole in the door was hacked wider, and warriors started forcing
their way through. The two archers loosed arrow after arrow into them. Six
Mykene fell before their comrades managed to get as far as the Trojan line. At
first they only climbed in one at a time, and the men on the front line
dispatched them with ease. Then they started pouring in and succeeded in
releasing the metal bars. The ruined doors groaned open.

Andromache watched with pride and fear as the small band of Trojan fighters
held back the forces of Agamemnon. Despite the power of the Mykene attack, the
slaughter was terrible in their ranks. Helikaon, Kalliades, and Banokles fought
with cool efficiency, each armed with shield and sword. Every attacker fell
swiftly to their blades, and for a moment Andromache gave in to hope. Then she
looked through the doors and saw the ranks of the enemy, all armed to the teeth,
ready to replace their fallen comrades. All hope drained away.

She looked around. The narrow Trojan line across the
megaron
was
protecting the stone staircase and the gallery. If it was pushed back even a few
paces, the enemy could reach the side of the gallery, throw ladders up, and get
behind the defenders. The Mykene would not make the mistake they had made the
last time and be drawn by arrogance to attack the stairs while neglecting the
gallery. Agamemnon, a cool thinker, would have made sure of that.

The women archers had been ordered to protect the gallery. With them were
some civilians, traders and farmers, and a number of old soldiers well past
their fighting years who were charged with pushing away the ladders and guarding
the women.

The brute strength of the Mykene advance soon started to take its toll on the
exhausted defenders, and the line was being forced back at each end. Andromache
saw Trojans falling, to be replaced instantly by their comrades behind. Yet
slowly the two wings of the line were being bent back. Only the center held.

“Be ready!” she shouted, and the women raised their bows. Ladders were passed
from hand to hand over the heads of the Mykene, and then she heard one bang
against the gallery wall. Half a dozen arrows slammed into the first warrior to
climb a ladder.

Below them one wing of the defending line had been pushed back farther. “Hold
the line!” someone bellowed. A group of old soldiers hurried down the stone
stairs, bellowing their battle cries, to lend their support to the collapsing
wing.

More and more ladders were raised, and soon Mykene warriors were climbing
onto the gallery. Andromache saw the civilians attacking them with swords and
clubs, fighting without skill but with desperation. Still the women stood their
ground, raining their shafts into the enemy.

The defenders below had been forced back to the stone staircase, and
Andromache saw a few Trojan soldiers fleeing up the stairs. Then she realized
they were racing to defend the gallery.

Kalliades left Helikaon and Banokles fighting side by side on the stairway
and sprinted up the steps toward her. As he passed, he snarled, “Retreat now,
Andromache!” Armed with two swords, he slammed into the advancing Mykene.

Andromache shouted to the women to retreat to the queen’s apartments. One was
already dead, but several wounded archers limped past, including little Anio,
blood streaming down one arm. The others fought on, loosing arrow after arrow
into the Mykene. Two were cut down. Penthesileia stood her ground alone, then
fell with a dagger in her side.

Andromache grabbed her bundle of arrows and turned to flee—and saw two Mykene
warriors stalking toward her, cutting off her path of retreat. The first lunged
his sword at her. Instinctively she blocked the blow with her bundle of arrows,
then grabbed an arrow in her fist and stepped in. With a cry she plunged it into
the eye of the attacker. He fell, clutching the shaft.

The second warrior raised his sword for a killing blow. Then he fell to his
knees, hit on the head from behind by a man wielding a club. The Mykene, dazed,
twisted around and rammed his sword into the belly of his attacker. Andromache
picked up the first Mykene’s sword and hacked at the second man’s neck until he
was still. She stepped over the bodies to reach her rescuer, who was slumped
against the wall, thick blood staining the front of his clothing. She knelt
down.

“Remember me, lady?” the man whispered, blood trickling from his mouth.

For a heartbeat Andromache did not. Then she saw that three fingers had been
cut away from his right hand, and the memory came back to her of a moment in a
street when a drunken man, a veteran of the Trojan Horse, had called her a
goddess.

“You are Pardones. I thank you for my life, Pardones.”

The dying man said something, but it was so weak that she could not hear it.
She bent down to him. “Kept it,” he murmured. Then the rasp of his breath
abruptly stopped.

She sat back, tears in her eyes, and saw on the floor beside his dead hand
the golden brooch she had given him for his courtesy and loyalty.

Wiping her face on the back of her hand, she got up, cast a last glance at
the
megaron
where Helikaon fought on, then followed Kalliades’ orders and
ran back down the stone corridor to the queen’s apartments.

The gathering room was a scene of carnage. Dozens of gravely wounded soldiers
lay on the floor, dragged there by comrades or civilians. There were a few
injured women. Andromache saw that Penthesileia had been brought there, still
alive but ashen-faced. Lying with her was Anio, her head in her sister’s lap.
Young Xander was moving from person to person, overwhelmed by the number of
injured yet carrying on, stanching wounds, comforting the wounded, holding the
hands of the dying. He looked up at her, and she saw that his face was gray.

Kalliades had followed her in, covered in blood, some of it from a wound high
in his chest.

“They have the gallery,” he told her urgently. “We can hold the stone
corridor for a while, but you must get ready to leave with the boys.”

“Helikaon?” she asked, her heart in her mouth.

But at that moment Helikaon and Banokles entered the gathering room, carrying
Polydorus, who was badly wounded. They laid the Eagle on the floor, then
Helikaon turned to Andromache.

“You must go now,” he told her, and she heard the agony in his voice.
You
must go, she thought with a stab of fear. Not
we
must go. She knew he
would stay and fight to the end. She would not try to change his mind.

They hurried to the room where the little boys slept on. She woke them, and
they rubbed their eyes and looked wonderingly at the blood-covered warriors
around their bed.

Helikaon lifted Andromache’s hand to his lips, and she winced. “You are
wounded?” he asked anxiously.

“Yesterday,” she admitted, showing him her shoulder. “It has opened up again.
I will need help with the boys.”

“You cannot take two children down the rope on your own, anyway,” he said. “I
will carry them down.” Hope flared in her, then died when he dropped his eyes.
“Then I must return,” he told her.

“You take Dex,” Kalliades suggested. “I will carry Astyanax. He knows me, and
we have shared adventures before.” He picked up the little boy, who confidently
put his arms around the warrior’s neck.

“Whatever you’re going to do, do it quickly,” urged Banokles, who had been
listening to the fighting in the stone corridor.

“Strap the child to me,” Kalliades told his friend, handing him a length of
bandage. In a moment Banokles had wound the bandage around him, tying the child
tightly to his chest. Kalliades walked to the window. Astyanax grinned over his
shoulder at Andromache and waved his hand at her, thrilled by the excitement.

“You had better take this,” Banokles said suddenly. Kalliades looked at the
weapon he was holding out.

“The sword of Argurios! I had lost it!”

“I found it on the stairs. Take it with you.”

“It will hamper me on my climb. Keep it until I get back.”

“You don’t know what might happen down there. Take it.”

Kalliades shrugged and sheathed the sword. He climbed out the window,
disappearing into the night.

“You next, my love,” Helikaon said to Andromache. “Can you climb down with
that wound?”

“I can make it,” she reassured him, although privately she had doubts. Her
heart was thudding in her chest. She cast a last glance at the blond warrior.
“Thank you, Banokles,” she said. It seemed inadequate after all he had done for
her. Before he could step back, she darted forward and kissed his cheek.
Banokles nodded, his face reddening.

Andromache sat on the window ledge and swung her legs around. Grabbing hold
of the rope, she started her descent.

With his small son Dex strapped to his body, Helikaon climbed hand over hand
down the rope after Kalliades and Andromache. He was anxious to return to the
palace quickly and could think only of the coming struggle. He knew that
Agamemnon would show himself at the last and that Helikaon would be waiting for
him. No matter how many elite warriors the Mykene king sent against him, he was
determined to survive long enough to confront Agamemnon and kill him if it was
in his power.

His feet reached the ground, and he pulled away the bandages holding Dex to
him.