Fall of Kings (16 page)

“Helikaon is my friend, King Alkaios, and I
will
bear witness to these
proceedings. Unless of course you wish to order the wife of Hektor dragged from
your
megaron.
”

He gave a wan smile. “Sadly, sweet Andromache, the mention of your husband’s
name no longer carries the weight it once did. Despite that, I will grant your
request. Not through fear or thoughts of future gain. Simply because you
are
the wife of a great man and one I admire.”

Looking up, he summoned a soldier to him, a short, stocky man with a strong
face and bright blue eyes. “Malkon,” he murmured, “the lady Andromache wishes to
see the duel. Take her to the Whisper Room and ensure that no one disturbs her.”

Andromache rose to her feet and smoothed the folds of her green gown. There
was so much she wanted to say to Helikaon, but her mouth was dry, her heart
beating fast. His sapphire gaze turned to her, and he smiled.

“I will see you soon, lady,” he told her.

“You keep that promise,” she told him, then turned and followed the stocky
soldier out of the
megaron
and along a corridor.

They came to a set of stone steps leading up through a narrow doorway to a
rooftop overlooking the town and the sea. The wind was blowing fiercely.
Andromache shivered. Malkon crossed the rooftop to a second doorway. Andromache
followed him. The soldier entered the room. Andromache paused in the doorway,
suddenly concerned. The room was dark and windowless. In the moonlight she could
see the dark shape of Malkon by the far wall. He seemed to be kneeling. Then
came another light, thin as a sword blade, from low in the wall, and Andromache
saw that the soldier had removed a slim section of paneling. Malkon rose and and
crept quietly back to the rooftop.

“If you stretch out upon the rug, lady,” he said, his voice a whisper, “you
will be able to see the the center of the
megaron.
I will wait outside.”

Andromache glanced into the darkened room with its sliver of light and
hesitated. “You wish to change your mind and return to your ship?” Malkon asked.

“No.” Stepping into the room, she crouched on the floor and edged in close to
the sliver of light. It was coming from torches flickering in the
megaron
below. The field of vision was narrow, and she could just see the edge of the
feast table and the central flagstones of the
megaron.
There were
servants moving below, scattering dry sand on the floor. The sound of the sand
striking the flagstones seemed loud in the room. One of the servants leaned in
to another and whispered, “I’ll wager two copper rings on the Mykene.” The words
echoed unnaturally in Andromache’s ears. So this is how the Whisper Room gained
its name, she thought. Spies would lie here listening to conversation in the
megaron
below.

The servants departed, and an elderly priest arrived. His robes were black,
and on his spindly shoulders he wore the twin red sashes that denoted a follower
of Ares.

“You have called upon the god of war to witness this duel,” he said. “Let it
be understood, then, that Ares has no wish to see anything but a fight to the
death. There will be no calls for mercy, no surrender, no flight. Only one
combatant will walk away. The other will shed his lifeblood upon these stones.
Let the duelists step forward.”

The first man Andromache saw was Persion. In the torchlight the pale skin of
his torso seemed as white as marble against his dark, suntanned arms and legs.
As he walked forward, he was stretching the muscles of his arms and shoulders,
loosening them for combat. Then she saw Helikaon. Persion seemed taller and
wider in the shoulder than Helikaon, and once again Andromache felt her fears
grow. Both men were armed with sword and dagger, the bronze glinting like red
gold in the torchlight.

“I call upon the gods to bear witness to the justness of my cause,” said
Persion. Then he stepped in close and whispered something no one in the hall
heard. But the sound carried to Andromache.

“I was there when we killed your brother. I set the flames to his tunic. Oh,
how he screamed! As you will scream, Helikaon, when I cut the flesh from your
bones.”

Helikaon did not reply or even seem to hear.

“Let the duel begin!” called out the priest, stepping back from the two
fighters. Instantly Persion leaped to the attack, his sword lancing toward
Helikaon’s head. The Dardanian danced to his left, avoiding the blow. The crowd
gasped. A long red line had appeared across Persion’s belly, a shallow cut that
began to leak blood. It streamed down over his genitals and thighs. Persion
shouted an oath and atacked again, slashing out with his sword. Helikaon blocked
the blow. Persion stabbed with his dagger. That, too, was parried. Helikaon
hurled himself forward, hammering a head butt into the Mykene’s face, smashing
his nose. Persion fell back with a cry. Helikaon stepped in, his sword slashing
left and right with dazzling speed. Then he withdrew. The cut to the flesh of
Persion’s belly had been joined by three other long wounds. Once again Persion
rushed at Helikaon. This time the Dardanian stepped in to meet him, easily
blocking and parrying the Mykene’s lunges. Helikaon’s dagger flashed out,
slicing the skin of Persion’s cheek, which flapped down from his face like a
torn sail.

Persion screamed in rage and frustration, hurling his knife at his tormentor.
Helikaon swayed to his right, and the weapon sailed harmlessly past, clattering
against the far wall. Persion charged, and Helikaon side-stepped. A crimson
spray erupted from Persion’s arm, and Andromache saw that the limb had been
slashed deeply. Blood was spurting from ruptured vessels.

“Call upon the gods again, wretch,” Helikaon taunted. “Perhaps they did not
hear you.”

Persion advanced again. Blood was pouring from him, and Helikaon, too, was
spattered with gore. The Mykene darted forward. His foot slipped. Helikaon
leaped, slashing his sword across Persion’s mouth, splitting the skin and
smashing the man’s front teeth. Persion fell to his knees, spitting blood. Then
he struggled to his feet and swung back to face his enemy.

Helikaon showed no mercy to the wounded man. Again and again his sword and
dagger cut and sliced the Mykene. One vicious slash ripped away an ear; another
tore into his face, cutting away his nose. Not a sound came from the crowd, but
Andromache could see the looks of horror on their faces. This was not a fight,
not even an execution. It was cold-blooded annihilation. With every fresh and
painful cut a cry of pain was torn from the mutilated Mykene. At last, his body
drenched in blood, which had begun to pool at his feet, he dropped his sword and
just stood there, blood streaming from him.

In that moment Helikaon tossed aside his sword, stepped in swiftly, and
rammed his dagger into Persion’s heart. The Mykene sagged against him and let
out a long, broken sigh.

Helikaon pushed the dying man from him. Persion’s legs gave way, and he
tumbled to the floor.

Andromache had seen enough. Rising to her feet, she waited as Malkon replaced
the panel of wood. Then the two of them returned to the rooftop. The wind had
died down, but it was still cold.

The soldier led Andromache down the steps and out to the road leading to the
beach. He walked with her in the moonlight until they were within sight of the
Xanthos
and the cookfires of the crew. Then, without a word, he turned
back to the palace.

Andromache was met by Oniacus and other crewmen. She told them Helikaon had
conquered. None was surprised. Paradoxically, though, they were all relieved.

Desiring no company, she moved far away from the campsite to a small section
of beach close to a wood. Sitting alone by the water’s edge, a thick cloak
wrapped around her, she could not push the images of the combat from her mind:
Helikaon, in a cold fury, cutting and slashing an increasingly helpless
opponent. Andromache saw again the spraying blood. By the end of the duel
Helikaon’s naked body had been almost as crimson as that of his opponent.

Near midnight she saw Helikaon walking along the beach toward her. His hair
was still wet from the bath he must have taken to remove the blood.

“You should be beside a fire,” he told her. “It is bitterly cold here.”

“Yes, it is,” she replied.

“What is wrong?” he asked her, sensing her mood. “One of our enemies has been
defeated, we are provisioned for the journey to Thera, and all is well. You
should be happy.”

“I am glad you survived, Helikaon. Truly I am. But I saw Kassandra’s red
demon tonight, and he filled me with sadness.”

He looked confused. “There was no demon,” he said. “What are you talking
about?”

Reaching up, she pressed her finger against the skin of his neck. As her hand
came away, there was blood on the finger. “You missed a spot,” she said coldly.

Then he understood, and his voice deepened with anger. “I am no demon! The
Mykene brought this upon himself. He was the one who set fire to my brother.”

“No, he was not,” Andromache told him. “King Alkaios talked to me of him
during the feast. He said Persion had fought many duels in the lands of the
west. But he had not been to sea before. How, then, could he have taken part in
the first attack on Dardanos?”

“Then why would he say what he did?”

“You do not need to ask that.”

She was right. Even as he had spoken the words, Helikaon had known the
answer. Persion had tried to make him angry and unsettle him for the fight.
Angry men were mostly reckless, and reckless men did not last long in duels. He
sat back and stared at Andromache. “He was a fool, then,” he said at last.

“Yes, he was,” she agreed with a sigh.

“You sound like you regret his death.”

She swung to face him, and he saw that she, too, was angry. “Yes, I regret
it. But more than that, I regret watching you torment and destroy a brave
opponent.”

“He was evil.”

Her hand snaked out, cracking against his face.

“You hypocrite!
You
were the evil one tonight. And the foulness of
what
you
did will be spoken of all across the Great Green. How you
tortured a proud man, turning him into a mewling wreck. It will be added to your
heroic
list of accomplishments: gouging the eyes from Alektruon, setting
fire to bound men at Blue Owl Bay, raiding unarmed villages in the west. How
dare you speak of the savagery of the Mykene when you are cast from the same
bronze? There is no difference between you.”

With that she pushed herself to her feet to walk away. He surged up and
grabbed her arm. “Easy for you, woman, to criticize me! You do not have to walk
into ruined towns and see the dead or bury your comrades or see your loved ones
raped and tortured.”

“No, I don’t,” she snapped, her green eyes flashing. “But those Mykene who
returned to settlements
you
destroyed will have seen it. They will have
buried loved ones
you
killed or tortured. I thought you a hero, brave and
noble. I thought you intelligent and wise; then I hear you talk of
all
Mykene as evil. Argurios, who fought and died beside you, was a hero. And he was
Mykene. The two men with Kalliope who saved me from assassins—they were Mykene!”

“Three men!” he stormed. “What of the thousands who swarm like locusts
through the lands they conquer? What of the hordes waiting to descend on Troy?”

“What do you want me to tell you, Helikaon? That I hate them? I do not. Hate
is the father of all evil. Hate is what creates men like Agamemnon and men like
you, vying with each other to see who can commit the most ghastly atrocity. Let
go of my arm!”

But he did not release her. She dragged back on his grip, then angrily lashed
out with her other hand. Instinctively he pulled her closer, his arm circling
her waist. This close, he could smell the perfume of her hair and feel the
warmth of her body against his. Her forehead cracked against his cheek, and he
grabbed her hair to prevent her from butting him again.

And then, before he knew what he was doing, he was kissing her. The taste of
wine was on her lips, and his mind swam. For a moment only she struggled; then
her body relaxed against him, and she responded to the kiss, just as she had on
the stairs four years before. He drew her closer, his hands sliding down over
her hips, drawing up her dress until he felt the warmth of her skin beneath his
fingers.

Then they were lying down, still entwined, her arms around his neck. He felt
the hunger in her kisses. It matched his own. She was beneath him now, and her
legs opened, her thighs sliding over his hips. With a groan of pleasure he
entered her.

Their lovemaking was fierce. No words were spoken. In all his life he never
had known such intensity of passion, such completeness of being. Nothing existed
in all the world except this woman beneath him. He had no sense of place or time
or even identity. There was no war, no mission, no life beyond. There was no
guilt, only a joy he had experienced only once before, in a delirium dream on
the point of death.

Andromache cried out then, the sound feral. Her body arched against his. Then
he, too, groaned and relaxed against her, holding her close.

Only then did he become aware of the lapping of the waves on the shoreline,
the whispering of the breeze through the treetops. He looked down into her face,
into her green eyes. He was about to speak when she curled her arm around his
neck and drew him into a soft embrace. “No more words tonight,” she whispered.

A half day’s sail to the east, in a protected bay on the isle of Naxos, the
sailors of the
Bloodhawk
and the crews of four other galleys sat in a
circle around the legendary storyteller Odysseus. His voice thundered out a tale
of gods and men and a ship caught up in a great storm that flew high into the
sky and anchored on the silver disk of the moon. The audience cheered wildly as
the stocky king embellished his tale with stories of nymphs and dryads.