Fall of Kings (36 page)

Andromache closed her eyes. She had left Astyanax thinking he was safe in
Troy. The familiar demon of guilt clawed at her. She had left her son to be with
her lover. Who did she think of more often on her journey, her only son or
Helikaon?

Helikaon was asking, “What of Dardanos?”

“The Mykene have ignored the fortress. Our people are safe for a while.
Agamemnon has pulled his troops away from Thebe as well, lady.” He glanced at
Andromache and flushed. “He has thrown all his forces and those of the western
kings into an attack on the Golden City.”

“And Hektor?” Andromache asked.

“Hektor leads the Trojan defense, but they are outnumbered, and the last we
heard they had been pushed back to the lower town. King’s Joy is taken, and the
plain of the Scamander.” He hesitated. “Prince Paris and his wife are dead. And
Prince Antiphones.”

Andromache, stunned by the news, saw the color drain from Helikaon’s face.
“All dead?” he said, his deep voice grave.

“There has been great slaughter on both sides, lord. The funeral pyres burn
night and day. If the
Xanthos
had arrived after dark, you would have seen
their light from far across the Great Green.”

“The city is surrounded?”

“No, lord. All their efforts are on the south of the city, at the
fortification ditch. People can still flee through the Scaean Gate or the
Dardanian Gate. Everyone is leaving,” he said. “But that was six days ago. The
situation changes daily. The
Boreas
has had no word since then.”

Oniacus stepped forward. “Agamemnon has left his ships vulnerable at the Bay
of Herakles, Golden One,” he said. “Our fire hurlers can destroy his ships in
one night, as we did at Imbros.”

Helikaon frowned. “Perhaps later. But at the moment, sadly, I do not have
that choice. The city is awaiting our cargo of tin, is it not, Asios?”

The young man nodded. “The city’s forges are dark,” he said. “Troy
desperately needs weapons and armor.”

Suddenly he glanced toward the coast, startled, and they all turned. In the
distance at the tip of Trojan lands, the Cape of Tides, a light had appeared. It
was a beacon, blazing brightly.

Helikaon gazed at it and frowned. “A beacon, but telling what to whom? Asios,
is the Cape of Tides in Trojan or Mykene hands?”

“I know not, lord. Trojan when I last heard.” He shrugged.

“It tells us nothing, then,” Helikaon said briskly, his decision made.
“Oniacus, we will sail on to the Hellespont and the Bay of Troy, then make our
way up the Simoeis. We will berth there and, if Athene favors us, smuggle our
tin into the city from the north.”

“But Menados’ fleet holds the Hellespont,” the young captain repeated. “Even
the
Xanthos
cannot defeat his fifty ships!”

“But,” Helikaon said thoughtfully, “maybe together the
Xanthos
and the
Boreas
can.”

The Mykene admiral Menados looked up from the high deck of his patrol ship
and saw a beacon blazing on the topmost cliff of the Cape of Tides.

“What does it mean, Admiral?” asked his aide, his sister’s son, a bright
enough boy but with no initiative.

“I do not know,” the admiral told him. “The Trojans are signaling someone,
but we cannot tell who or what the signal means. Much good may it do them,” he
grunted. “They are all dead men, anyway.”

Like his crews, Menados was bored and frustrated after long days of sailing
the Hellespont. Of his fleet of fifty-seven, he had ordered thirty ships to
patrol the length of the Trojan coast from the tip of the Thrakian shore to the
Bay of Herakles. Seven ships, including this own, the new bireme
Alektruon,
held station against the current in the Hellespont. The remaining twenty ships
were beached on the coast of Thraki, their men relieved to sleep and eat. The
ships’ duties were rotated regularly, but it was no work for fighting men, he
thought, traveling back and forth, first under oars and then under sail, over
and over again, wearing out the oarsmen and blunting the skills of their
captains. Menados privately thought the duty was Agamemnon’s punishment of him
for the mercy Helikaon had shown him at Dardanos.

Word of the blockade had traveled swiftly through the lands bordering the
Hellespont, and no ship so far had tried to break it and sail out of the
straits. They had sunk one Dardanian ship trying to break in under cover of
darkness, and two Hittite merchants had tried to run the blockade and get home,
angry at Agamemnon’s high-handed action in closing the straits to the ships of
all lands.

As the doomed Hittite seamen had struggled in the cold, treacherous waters,
Menados had been asked if the Mykene ships should pick them up. Let them die,
had been his order. Personally, it would have been his choice to rescue them; he
had respect for seamen of all lands, and it would have been easy enough to drop
them on the Thrakian coast to make their way home on foot. But word could not
get back to the Hittite emperor that his ships were being sunk by the Mykene.
The few strong swimmers who seemed likely to make it to the shore were stalked
by the ships, then picked off by archers when they failed to drown.

“Ship to the north!”

The admiral turned and shaded his eyes. Members of the
Alektruon
’s
crew jumped up to look, eager for action. The distant ship was under sail,
speeding toward them, pushed by the stiff northerly. Menados could not see its
markings in the failing light but hoped it was Dardanian or Trojan.

Most of the Trojan fleet was bottled up in the Bay of Troy. It could not get
out, but equally, the Mykene fleet could not get in. Priam never had acquired
the strength of shipping justified by such a great city, relying instead on the
huge Dardanian fleet built up by his kinsmen Anchises and Helikaon for his
trading and defense. There were a mere eighteen Trojan ships trapped in the bay,
but many were said to be equipped with fire hurlers, which balanced Menados’
numerical advantage. It was a stalemate.

With more ships at his disposal, Menados knew he could take the bay easily.
But Agamemnon needed every available foot soldier to capture the city, for they
were dying in the thousands.

Menados sighed. The crewmen confined to his ships should be content to stay
aboard. Daily they saw in the sky above Troy the evidence of the funeral pyres,
pillars of smoke by day and a fiery glow by night.

“It’s a Dardanian ship, lord!” his aide cried. “Your orders?”

Now Menados could see for himself the black horse sail. Not the
Xanthos,
though, he thought. Too small. A pity.

“Five ships,” he ordered. “Board her. They may have useful information for
Agamemnon. The other ships close on her but stand off. There might be fire
hurlers.”

His orders were given by the display of brightly colored banners fashioned
from linen, a system Menados had invented for conveying information at sea. Five
ships, four Mykene and one Athenian, set off toward the oncoming vessel,
intending to slow her by destroying her sail, then ram and board her. The other
Mykene ships all turned to the north, too. The Dardanian ship came on, not
changing her course, apparently determined to break through the vessels
approaching her.

As they closed, flaming arrows shot from the Athenian ship, targeted on the
black horse. Two fell in the sea, but five hit their mark, and the sail began to
burn. As it disintegrated in flame, the ship lost its way, but it still came on.
Flaming debris fell to the deck, there was a mighty
whoosh,
and instantly
the whole ship was alight.

At the last moment Menados saw three figures hurl themselves from the deck of
the ship into the water.

“Fire ship!” he shouted. “Come about! Keep clear!”

But the blazing ship came on, and the Athenian ship could not get clear in
time. The fire ship rammed into her hull as she was still turning and slid along
the wooden planking. The force of the collision caused the Dardanian ship’s mast
to collapse, and it fell flaming onto the deck of the Athenian ship. Pieces of
burning sail hurled by the high wind struck the sail of one of the Mykene ships,
and it, too, started to blaze.

“Fools!” Menados shouted, watching two of his ships blazing, the crews
throwing themselves into the water. The other ships were moving clear.

And fools aboard the fire ship, he thought. Why sacrifice a ship in such a
way?

He spun around. Behind them, powering at full speed through the gathering
darkness, he could see the
Xanthos
making its way through the gap between
the Mykene ships and the Cape of Tides. It was a rough and windy night, and the
bireme’s rowers were hard-pressed by the wind from the north and the strong
current at the cape.

“The
Xanthos
!” Menados shouted. “Come about, you idiots! Quickly!”

His steersman leaned on the steering oar with all his strength, and Menados
added his own weight. But by the time they turned the ship to chase the great
vessel, it was fully dark, and the
Xanthos
sped away from the light of
the three blazing ships and disappeared into the darkness of the Hellespont.

The
Xanthos
moved ahead slowly through the night, making her way east
along the Simoeis. The sky was clear and starlit overhead, but a light mist lay
over the river. The only sounds were the soft plashing of oars and the harsh
braying of donkeys in the distance. It was so quiet that Andromache could hear
scuffling noises in the reeds as small creatures fled the passing of the great
ship.

The
Xanthos
had entered the straits at a dangerous speed in the
darkness, overloaded as she was with the crew of the
Boreas.
Only a
seaman as experienced as Helikaon would have risked it, for he knew the strong
currents and perilous rocks of the Cape of Tides better than any man. But once
within the Bay of Troy, the rowers had slowed. Then more vessels had loomed
around them in the dark: the Trojan ships trapped in the bay. Andromache would
have expected cheering as the Golden Ship glided past, but there was an eerie
silence as sailors lined the decks to watch the
Xanthos
as it headed
through the bay toward Troy’s northern river.

“Why so quiet?” she asked Oniacus, who was standing on the foredeck with a
sounding pole, peering into the mist ahead. “We are still far from Troy and the
enemy camps.”

Keeping his gaze fixed on the river, the sailor replied, “At night sound
travels over very great distances. We cannot be too careful.”

“They all look so grim,” she said.

He nodded. “Aye. It seems much has changed here since we left.”

The Simoeis was shallow and marshy even in the spring, and Helikaon steered
the
Xanthos
in the center of the river. Andromache could see little in
the misty night, and time crawled by slowly. Finally she felt the ship slow to a
complete stop. The silence around them was heavy and oppressive.

“This is about as far as we can go,” Oniacus said quietly. “We will moor here
and unload the tin. We can only hope our enemies are not expecting us.”

Andromache felt a shiver of fear run through her. Trapped in this shallow,
narrow river, the
Xanthos
would be vulnerable if the forces of the Mykene
found her. Had the admiral Menados been able to send word to Agamemnon of the
ship’s arrival? Had he had the time?

The rowers shipped their oars, and the sluggish pull of the river floated the
vessel gently into the side. Andromache strained her eyes to see into the mist
on the riverbank.

Suddenly a torch flared. A voice called softly, “Ho,
Xanthos
!” A dark
figure, hooded and cloaked, appeared out of the gloom. In the light of a single
torch he looked massive.

Helikaon left the steering oar and strode down the aisle to the center deck.
With a long dagger in one hand he vaulted over the side of the ship and landed
lightly on the soft ground beneath.

Andromache heard a familiar voice say, “There is no need for daggers between
us, Golden One.” Then Hektor pushed his hood back, stepped forward, and threw
his arms around Helikaon in a bear hug.

She heard him ask, “Is Andromache safe?” and she stepped to the side of the
ship where she could be seen. Hektor looked up, and in the torchlight she could
see that his face was tired and strained. But he smiled when he saw her.

A crewman dropped a ladder from the deck to the riverbank, and she climbed
swiftly down. She hesitated before her husband, her emotions in turmoil, then
stepped into his embrace. She looked up at him. “Astyanax?” she asked.

He nodded reassuringly. “He is well,” he said.

They stood back, and the three of them gazed at one another. Andromache had
not foreseen this moment. She had expected to return to Troy accompanied by
Helikaon, with Hektor away at war, and she had spent sleepless nights aboard
ship worrying about keeping their illicit love secret in a city of gossips and
spies. Now her future had been changed in a blink of an eye. Seeing Hektor
again, his face speaking of burdens he barely could shoulder, she felt ashamed
of herself and her selfish plotting.

Helikaon seemed genuinely pleased to see his old friend again. “You are a
welcome sight, Cousin,” he said. “How did you know we’d be here?”

“The beacon on the Cape of Tides. I gave orders for it to be lit when the
Xanthos
was spotted. We have looked long for your return, Golden One,”
Hektor replied. “We knew you would beat Menados’ blockade.”

“Three brave men gave their lives to deliver us safely,” Helikaon said.
“Asios and two crewmen from the
Boreas.
”

“Their names were Lykaon and Periphas,” Andromache told him.

Helikaon looked at her and nodded. “You are right, Andromache. Their names
should not be forgotten. Asios, Lykaon, and Periphas.”

“Those three could be the saving of Troy if you come bearing tin,” Hektor
said.