Fall of Kings (60 page)

Polydorus shook his head weakly, “I never saw Priam wearing a crown.”

“Then how will people know I’m king?”

“I suspect you will tell them, my friend, if you get the chance.” Then
Polydorus’ face became grave. “May the All-Father guard you, Banokles. It is
time now.”

Banokles stood up, then turned and walked to the corridor.

The last Eagle was battling courageously. The stone corridor was littered
with bodies, and Banokles dragged two corpses back into the gathering room to
give himself room to fight. One Trojan soldier lay slumped against the corridor
wall, clutching a wound in his belly. He raised a warding hand as Banokles
approached him.

“I would rather die here than in there,” he told him.

Banokles nodded. He closed the oak door to the gathering room behind him and
waited. He did not have to wait long. The last Eagle, weakened by his wounds,
fell to one knee, and his Mykene opponent swung his sword at the man’s neck,
half beheading him.

Banokles stepped up. The Mykene warrior looked familiar, but he could not
name him. It doesn’t matter, anyway, Banokles thought. He wrenched one sword
from his scabbard, blocked a fierce overhead cut, and sent a slashing riposte
across the warrior’s face. The man stumbled, and Banokles plunged the blade into
his chest.

He turned briefly to the injured Trojan. “One,” he said.

Then he unsheathed his other sword and felt a familiar calm settle on him.
The only contentment he had felt since Red’s death had been in the heat of
battle. His grief for his wife, the burden of his responsibilities—they all
vanished, and Banokles rejoiced.

A huge warrior in a lion-skin tunic leaped toward him, sword raised. Banokles
parried the blow and reversed a cut to the warrior’s neck. The blade hammered
into armor and broke. Dropping it, Banokles ducked away from a second blow, then
twisted his wrist, and his other sword hissed through the air into the man’s
groin. As the man stumbled, Banokles chopped him on the back of the neck,
severing his spine. He picked up the man’s sword as he fell to the floor.

“Two,” he heard the injured Trojan say, and he laughed.

The next warrior took longer to kill. He inflicted two minor wounds on
Banokles—one on the leg and one on the cheek—before Banokles blocked a lunge,
spun his blade, and thrust it under the man’s helm.

“Three.”

With the fourth warrior it became a duel. Banokles tried a feint, followed by
a lunge to the heart. The Mykene parried it and sent a return cut that struck
Banokles’ neck, slicing open the skin. The pace picked up, with both men hacking
and slashing, blocking and moving. Banokles realized he was tiring. He knew he
could not afford to get tired. He had to end each contest quickly. He feinted
with his left sword, and as the Mykene parried it, he swept the right sword up
through the man’s belly and chest, disemboweling him.

There were a few moments of rest while the Mykene dragged away their dead and
dying. Then the next warrior stepped toward him.

As the morning dragged on, Banokles felt his concentration wavering. After
one kill he glanced down at himself to see blood still flowing from the gash in
his leg. There were other minor wounds, including one on the left shoulder. That
arm was reacting too slowly.

“You are dying, Banokles,” someone said. He realized it was the man in front
of him, a Mykene in the old armor of Atreus’ personal guard. Banokles staggered
as the man’s blade lanced beneath his ribs, deflecting off the bronze disks of
his leather breastplate. Then Banokles got his feet under him and surged
forward, his right sword swinging in a high, vicious arc. It tore into the man’s
neck protector, ripping through it and opening a deep wound in the man’s throat.
He fell back, choking on blood, and Banokles leaped on him, plunging his sword
into the man’s face.

“How many now?” he shouted. There was no reply. He glanced behind him at the
injured Trojan, but the soldier had died.

Seventeen, Banokles decided. Maybe more. He picked up the last opponent’s
shield to replace his left sword and guard that side.

A huge warrior walked down the corridor toward him. Banokles prepared to meet
him, but his sword seemed very heavy, and he dragged it in front of him with a
massive effort.

“Banokles,” the warrior’s deep voice rumbled, and Banokles saw that it was
Ajax Skull Splitter. Banokles was glad the veteran Mykene champion had survived
the battle at the Scaean Gate. He knew he would have to use all his strength and
concentration to kill the man, but he felt badly in need of sleep.

“Kalliades?” Ajax questioned him.

Banokles managed a grin. “He’s back there, having a rest and something to
eat. He’s up next. And you know he could teach me a thing or two about sword
fighting.”

Ajax laughed, the deep rumble making the stones of the corridor vibrate.

“Then you will walk the Dark Road together,” he promised.

He attacked with speed that belied his great size. He was fast, but Banokles
already was moving, He ducked under the slashing sweep of the broadsword and
kicked out, catching Ajax on the knee. The big man staggered, but he was so well
balanced that he recovered in a heartbeat and lunged for Banokles’ throat.
Banokles blocked the blow and leaped back a pace.

Ajax attacked again. Their blades met. Ajax hacked and slashed, but Banokles
blocked every blow, moving on instinct, his body awash with pain. Suddenly Ajax
spun on his heel and crashed his massive fist into Banokles’ face. Banokles fell
back.

He blinked. There was sweat in his eyes, or blood, because his vision was
fading in and out. Suddenly he found that he was down on one knee and could not
get up. I’ll have that sleep soon, he thought.

He was surprised to see Ajax sheathe his sword, then turn and walk back down
the corridor. Banokles knew he should leap up and ram his blade into his old
comrade’s back. He was planning to do it, but time passed and he found that he
still was kneeling on the floor. Angry voices echoed down the corridor. There
were armed men there, watching him.

“I order you to kill him,” one man shouted furiously. His deep voice was
familiar, but Banokles could not remember whose it was.

“I’ll not dispatch him for you, Agamemnon King,” Ajax rumbled, anger in his
voice. “You were a warrior once, too.”

Banokles’ last sight was of a tall figure walking down the corridor toward
him. He realized it was Red, and he grinned up at her as the light faded.

Today was a good day, he thought happily.

Agamemnon wrenched his sword out of Banokles’ chest and handed it to an aide
to clean. He was in a good humor. Killing Banokles had put an end to an
irritating flea bite he had not been able to scratch. He had no doubt that the
traitor’s accomplice Kalliades lay dead somewhere in the mounds of Trojan
corpses he had seen between the Scaean Gate and this last corridor.

He had waited all morning with his brother kings Menelaus and Idomeneos, his
anger growing as warrior after warrior sent into the stone corridor failed to
kill the renegade. But now he was dead, and nothing stood in the way of
Agamemnon’s twin ambitions: to kill the boy-king, Hektor’s get, and to win his
prize: the treasure of Priam. He knew he must be close to them both for so many
Trojans to have died guarding this way.

At the end of the stone corridor was a simple oak door.

“Open it!” he ordered, and two axmen ran forward. But it was not barred and
opened at a touch. Preceded by the axmen and flanked by his bodyguard, Agamemnon
strode in.

Inside there appeared to be a hospital. Dead and dying Trojans, perhaps forty
of them, including a few women, lay on the floor of a great square room. The
stench was appalling, and death hung in the air like wood smoke. All eyes turned
to him. Some were full of fear; most held acceptance of their fate.

Standing in front of the wounded, holding a sword raised in both hands, was a
short young man in a blood-drenched robe.

Ignoring him, Agamemnon looked around. There were no children in the chamber.
They must have hidden them. He frowned, his good humor evaporating.

The boy with the sword was saying something. Agamemnon listened impatiently.
“Do not kill these people,” the boy asked, his voice trembling. “They can no
longer harm you and your armies.”

“Kill him,” Agamemnon ordered the axmen.

“Wait!” Meriones, Idomeneos’ aide, stepped forward in front of the boy. The
axmen paused and looked to Agamemnon uncertainly.

“I know you, lad,” Meriones told the boy. “I have seen you with Odysseus.”

The young man nodded and lowered his sword slightly. “I am Xander. I was
privileged to be healer to great Achilles and his Myrmidons. I am a friend of
Odysseus.”

“Then what are you doing here, lad, with the Trojans?”

“It is a long story,” Xander confessed.

“It is a story I would like to hear,” Meriones told him, looking at
Agamemnon. “Spare the boy, Agamemnon King. We could do with a tale or two now
that Odysseus has departed.”

“Good riddance,” Idomeneos barked. “I want no more tall tales. Kill the boy
and let’s find the treasury.”

Irritated almost beyond endurance by the Kretan king after a long summer in
his company, Agamemnon snapped, “Very well, Meriones. As usual,
you
give
me good advice. Healer, I will spare you and your wounded if you tell me where
Hektor’s son is.”

The young man replied nervously. “Astyanax is gone, sir. The Golden One took
him away last night.”

Helikaon again! Agamemnon felt his fury rising with the speed of a summer
storm. “Helikaon was here? Only last night? How is that possible? You are lying,
boy!”

“No, sir. I am telling you the truth. He climbed the north wall and took the
boys away. The lady Andromache went with him, and—”

“The north wall? But that cannot be climbed!”

“It is true, lord. I expect the rope is still there for you to see.”

He pointed toward the rear rooms, and Agamemnon gestured for a soldier to go
look. Menelaus followed him.

Always Helikaon, the Battle King thought, spoiling my plans at every turn!
Even at my moment of victory.

Idomeneos rasped, “I have no interest in the killing of Hektor’s son. Troy is
finished whether Priam’s line survives or not. Do you fear that Helikaon and the
boy-king will raise an army and try to take the city back? Why would we worry?
We will find Priam’s treasure and return to our lands.”

Agamemnon nodded. Sharptooth was, as usual, motivated only by his own greed,
but in this he was right. The boy could be hunted down at leisure. Nowhere on
the Green Great was safe for him. Once Troy was securely in Mykene hands and in
the charge of a commander loyal to Agamemnon, the king could go back to the
Lion’s Hall and his wife and son and celebrate his victory over Priam and his
Golden City. Agamemnon King, Conqueror of the East! His name would go down in
legend as the destroyer of Troy.

Good humor restored, he turned to Xander. “I am a man of my word, boy. Tend
to your wounded. No more Trojans will die at the hands of the Battle King.”

“Brother!” Agamemnon turned. Menelaus had returned from the rear rooms
pale-faced.

“Well? Was the rope there? Is the healer speaking the truth?”

“Yes, Brother, but there is something else you must see.” He gestured
urgently for Agamemnon to join him.

The Mykene king sighed. His bodyguard at his side, he followed Menelaus into
a small rear room. The window looked out to the north, and to its stone pillar
was tied a strong rope. It had been cut near the top.

At Menelaus’ urgent bidding, Agamemnon walked to the window and looked out.

It was well past noon, and the sun shone warmly on the meadows flanking the
river Simoeis. Dry throughout the summer, the wide plains had been made verdant
by the recent rains. But little greenery was now visible. As far as the eye
could see, the plain was covered with armed men, cavalry and infantry in
disciplined ranks, motionless, waiting for orders.

Menelaus gasped, “Hittites, Brother! The Hittite army is here!”

On a rocky clifftop to the east of the city the old smith Khalkeus lay in an
exhausted sleep, his body curled protectively around the perfect sword. His
hands had been burned badly trying to handle the weapon. The numbness in his
fingers had masked the pain at first. He also, he thought, had not eaten for
several days, although he was interested to find he no longer seemed to need
food. His dwindling store of water smelled bad, but he sipped it from time to
time.

At twilight he decided to return to the city to present the sword to the
king. His few belongings, along with the tent that had sheltered him all summer,
had been destroyed in the fire. He tucked the half-empty water skin under one
arm and, gingerly cradling the sword across both forearms, set off.

The pain in his hands was torture. He was angry with himself. A smith with
his experience should not make the mistakes of an apprentice. The raw red palms
would take a long time to heal, and he would be hampered in his work.

He encouraged himself to go forward by visualizing the expression of awe and
delight on the Mykene king’s face when he saw the sword, his urgency as he
begged Khalkeus to tell him how it was made. The old man felt a moment of regret
that it would not be Helikaon who would receive the sword. He always had done
his best work with the encouragement of the Dardanian king, but he had no doubt
that by now the Trojans and their allies had been destroyed. As he walked toward
the city, he could see flames leaping high from within the walls and hear the
sounds of battle. He was curious to know how the western kings finally had taken
the city. The idea of a great battering ram suspended on chains on a wheeled
platform had been forming in his head. Distracted, he stumbled on the rocky
ground and nearly fell. Careful, he thought to himself in a moment of clarity.
You cannot afford to fall on your hands. He moved more slowly, picking his way
in the darkness.