Fall of Kings (63 page)

Kassandra was lying on a narrow bed in a corner of the high bleak chamber. It
was dark and very cold. The only windows were high above, and she was staring at
the dusty shafts of light they shed, her mouth moving as if in conversation.

“Kassandra,” Andromache said gently.

After a long delay her sister looked at her. Andromache was shocked to see
her condition. She was dirty, and her hair was in rats’ tails. She was
skeletally thin, and looking into her fevered eyes was like staring into a black
furnace.

“Is it time?” she asked feebly. “Can I go now?”

There was a jug of water and a goblet beside her, so Andromache filled the
goblet, then gently lifted her sister up and dribbled some water into her mouth.
After a few mouthfuls Kassandra drank greedily, holding on to the goblet, water
running down her filthy gown onto the floor.

“Andromache,” she said at last, clutching at her with bony fingers. “I’m so
glad you’ve come. There is much to tell you and little time.”

“Listen to me, Sister,” Andromache urged her. “You must come with me. I will
take you to the
Xanthos.
It is here, with Helikaon. We will travel
together again.”

“She is too ill to be moved,” Iphigenia told her reprovingly.

“I will bring men from the
Xanthos.
Helikaon will come and fetch you,
my love.”

“Men will not defile this temple,” the old priestess barked. “Do not be so
arrogant, Andromache, as to bring down the god’s wrath on us.”

“Then I will carry her myself,” Andromache told her defiantly.

“Listen, Andromache. You never
listen,
” Kassandra cried, pulling her
close. “I am dying, and I have always known I would die here. You know that. I
told you so many times. It is my fate, and I rejoice in it. I will see Mother
again. She is waiting for me just beyond, so close that I can almost touch her.
She knows I am coming. It is my fate. You must let me be.”

Andromache felt tears running down her face, and Kassandra brushed them
gently away. “Tears for me, Sister? You cried for Hektor, too. I saw you.

“They never should have killed him, you see. Hektor and Achilles were the
last great heroes. And after the Age of Heroes comes the Age of Darkness.”
Kassandra seemed to gain strength as she spoke. “Even now they are coming down
from the north, the barbarians, sweeping through the lands of the western kings.
Soon they will learn the secret of the star metal; then nothing will stop them.
Within a generation they will tear down the stone palaces of the mighty. In the
Lion’s Hall where the heroes walked there will be only rats and beetles feeding;
then green grass will cover the ruins, and sheep will graze there.”

“But what of Troy, Sister?”

“Troy will be a place of legend. Only the names of its heroes will live on.”

“Did they all die?”

But Kassandra had paused, listening to her voices. “Astyanax and Dex,” she
asked suddenly. “Are they safe?”

“Yes, they are safe. Was Melite’s prophecy true, Sister? Is Astyanax the
Eagle Child?”

Kassandra smiled then. Her manner became less anxious, and her voice was that
of a normal young woman, the passion and urgency gone. “Prophecies are slippery
things,” she told Andromache, patting her hand. “Like oiled snakes. Priam and
Hekabe searched for many years for the meaning of Melite’s words. Finally they
found a soothsayer who interpreted them to their liking. He told them the
prophecy meant that a king’s son born to the Shield of Thunder—you—would never
be defeated in battle and that his city would be eternal.”

“But you do not believe that?” Andromache asked. “Is Astyanax not the Eagle
Child? Priam believed he would found a dynasty.”

Kassandra laughed, and the sound was bright and merry and echoed off the roof
and walls of the temple. For a moment the dust motes seemed to dance in the
shafts of light.

“Like his father Hektor, Astyanax will have no sons,” she said, smiling at
the paradox. “But because of him a dynasty
will
be founded, and it
will
last a thousand years. It is true, Andromache. I have seen it set in
the stones of the future.”

“But that is not the prophecy of Melite.”

“No, it is the prophecy of Kassandra.”

A shudder ran through the temple as another small earthquake hit, and a
corner of the temple roof gave way, collapsing to the floor, sending a new cloud
of dust boiling around the chamber.

“You must go now,” Kassandra told her. They looked at each other calmly.
Andromache felt the turmoil in her heart cease, and acceptance took its place.
She nodded, then embraced her sister for the last time. But Kassandra suddenly
pulled away from her, her eyes wild again.

“Go now!” she shouted, flailing her arms. “Agamemnon is coming! You must go
now!” She pushed urgently at Andromache until her sister stood up.

“Agamemnon?”

“He is coming to rescue me,” Iphigenia explained. “Kassandra tells me he will
be here before noon, with a fleet. I will return with him to Mykene.”

Andromache hesitated no more but ran to the door, pausing for a last wave to
Kassandra. But the girl had turned away and was speaking to her unseen friends
again. Andromache picked up her skirts and raced from the temple toward the
cliff path.

On the beach Helikaon watched as Andromache strode away up the path toward
the temple. Her back was straight, and her hips swayed delightfully under the
flame-colored dress.

Odysseus observed him, grinning. “You are a fortunate man, Helikaon.”

“I have always been fortunate in my friends, Odysseus. You taught me to face
my fears and conquer them. Andromache taught me that life can be savored only if
you look to the future and leave vengeance to the gods.”

“A good woman and a fine philosophy,” Odysseus agreed. “And if Agamemnon were
to walk up this beach now?”

“I would kill him in a heartbeat,” Helikaon admitted with a grin. “But I will
no longer seek out revenge and let it rule my life.”

“You are sailing to the Seven Hills for the winter?”

Helikaon nodded. “The Trojan fleet has gone ahead of us. With all the extra
men in the settlement, there will be a great deal to do.”

“Many men and not enough women,” Odysseus observed. “There will certainly be
work for you to do, arbitrating disputes and settling grievances. Try to do it
without severing their heads from their bodies.”

Helikaon laughed, and the feeling of urgency in his chest eased.

Then he saw Kalliades and Skorpios walking toward them, and his heart sank.
He had tried to persuade the two warriors to stay on the ship to the Seven
Hills, but he could guess what they had come to ask.

“Kalliades!” Odysseus cried. “It is good to see you! Where is our friend
Banokles?”

“He fell at Troy,” Kalliades told him.

“Then I wager he took a good few of the enemy with him.”

“Banokles never did things by halves. He was a brave man and a fine comrade.
He often spoke of the Hall of Heroes. I’m sure he is supping there now with
Hektor and Achilles and telling them what a fine warrior he is.”

The other men smiled. Then Kalliades told Odysseus, “This is Skorpios of the
Trojan Horse. We both wish to go to Ithaka. Will you grant me passage one last
time, Odysseus?”

“Aye, lad, with pleasure. And you can tell me tales of the fall of Troy to
pay your way.”

The tall warrior unstrapped his sword belt and held it out to Helikaon.

“I owe you my life, lord, and I owe it to Argurios, too. Take the sword of
Argurios with you. It belongs to the people of Troy, not one wandering Mykene.”

Helikaon received it silently. He slid the sword out of the scabbard and
gazed at it with awe. “It is a wondrous gift. But will you not need it, my
friend?”

“I do not yet know the shape of my future, Golden One, but I know I will not
be carving it out with a sword.”

They sat on the black sand then. Kalliades spoke of the last days of Troy,
and Helikaon told Odysseus of the escape from the city. The sun was rising fast
toward noon when Helikaon spotted the flame of Andromache’s dress on the cliff
path. She appeared to be hurrying, though she was treading with care on the
treacherous slope. There was no sign of Kassandra.

He stood and strode over to meet her. As he did so, he saw dozens of rats
running from their holes in the base of the cliff and scurrying toward the sea.

“Where is Kassandra?” he asked, taking Andromache’s hand.

“She will not come. She is dying.”

As Helikaon frowned and moved toward the path, Andromache stopped him. “She
wants to die here. She says it is her fate. She will not come, and it would not
be right to make her.”

“Then I will go and say goodbye to her.”

She grabbed his arm. “She says Agamemnon is coming with a fleet. He will be
here by noon. I know you do not believe her predictions. It is her destiny never
to be believed. But the First Priestess confirms her brother is coming for her.
We must leave, my love, as fast as we can.” There was an edge of panic in her
voice.

He looked up the cliff path but turned back to her, the woman he loved above
all others. “As always, I will take your advice. Come.”

As they walked back to the ship, Helikaon shouted to his crew to get ready.
He quickly told Odysseus the news, and without a parting word the Ithakan king
hurried to the
Bloodhawk.
Helikaon felt something brush against his foot
and looked down. There were more rats heading for the ships, dozens of them,
running over his feet and climbing the ship’s trailing ropes.

He heard cries as the crew spotted them, and he looked back up the beach. The
black sand now was swarming with thousands of the creatures. And they all were
heading for the two ships.

There were shouts and curses from the crew of the
Xanthos
as the
rodents started scrambling on board. Men were leaping about, skewering rats on
their swords, but more and more were climbing onto the ship all the time.

“Don’t try to kill them all!” Helikaon bellowed. “Get the ship off the
beach!”

He handed Andromache quickly up the ladder. He saw that her face was pale
with anxiety for her boys as she stepped onto the rat-infested ship. Then,
trying to ignore the creatures running over his feet and biting his legs,
Helikaon put his shoulder to the hull with others from his crew. He saw crewmen
running from the
Bloodhawk
to help move the
Xanthos.
Slowly the
great bireme began to shift. Then, with a rasp of wood on sand, she moved into
the sea and floated free, surrounded by swimming rats.

The
Bloodhawk
crewmen ran back to their ship, and Helikaon went with
them. It was impossible to run through the carpet of rats without treading on
them, and the men slipped and slid on squashed bodies and rodent blood. They
leaned into its planks and within heartbeats pushed the smaller ship into the
water. Helikaon climbed on board. Men were killing the rats frantically,
stabbing them with swords and daggers and throwing them overboard. Fewer were
getting onto the ship as she drifted out into clear water. Helikaon glanced at
the
Xanthos.
She also was floating clear, and the oars were being run
out.

He skewered a dozen more rodents and threw their carcasses in the water. Then
he walked over to Odysseus, who still was energetically stabbing any rat he
could see.

“This will make a fine tale for you, my friend,” Helikaon told him, laughter
bubbling up as he watched the fat king dancing about, impaling rats on his
sword.

Odysseus stopped, panting, and grinned. “I need no more tales, even rats’
tales,” he countered. “Stories are always buzzing in my head like a hive full of
bees!”

Then his expression sobered. “Get back to your ship, Helikaon. We must both
make haste. We cannot take on an entire Mykene fleet.”

Helikaon stepped forward and embraced his old mentor for the last time. “Good
sailing, my friend.”

Odysseus nodded. “Look for me in the spring,” he promised.

With a parting salute to Kalliades and Skorpios, Helikaon ran to the foredeck
and dived into the sea. As he swam toward the
Xanthos,
he tried to ignore
the floating carpet of dead and dying rats and the scratching of claws as
drowning animals tried to scramble onto his back. He grabbed the rope his crew
had lowered for him and climbed onto the deck. Only then did he allow himself to
shudder and brush phantom rats from his shoulders.

He looked around. Andromache stood at the mast, gazing up at the Great Horse.
Oniacus was ready at the steering oar. The oar smen watched Helikaon, waiting
for his words.

“By the mark of one!” he shouted, and the oar blades sliced into the water.
Following the
Bloodhawk,
the
Xanthos
left the island as the sun
rose toward noon.

Agamemnon liked to think of himself as a pragmatist. Standing on the deck of
his flagship as it raced toward Thera, he was still angry, but looking back on
the last day in Troy, he knew he would have made his vital decisions no
differently.

That blowhard Idomeneos had berated him for opening the Scaean Gate to the
Hittite horde, but had he had any choice? If they had barred the gates to keep
the Hittites out, Agamemnon’s troops would have been trapped in the city as
surely as the Trojans had been before them, with little water or food. They
would have starved within days, then been forced to sally out weakened and
vulnerable to face superior Hittite numbers.

And although it had been humiliating to be ordered from Troy by the upstart
emperor, it actually had worked in his favor. Agamemnon had no intention of
rebuilding the ruined city. His aim had been accomplished. Everyone throughout
the Great Green knew he had destroyed Troy, defeated Priam, and killed all his
sons. He was Agamemnon the Conqueror, and all men quailed before him. His name
would echo forever in hearts and minds, as the priest in the Cave of Wings had
predicted.