Fall of Kings (59 page)

“It is still dark,” the tall warrior pointed out. “Andromache will need a
torch.”

He shouted up to the window, “Banokles, throw down a torch!”

Within moments a flaming brand flew through the air and fell some paces away.
Kalliades ran to get it, stamping out the sparks on the dry vegetation and gave
the torch to Andromache. Standing tall in the torchlight in a flame-red dress,
she had never looked more beautiful, Helikaon thought.

He said to her urgently, “The
Xanthos
will wait only until the sun
clears the horizon, so you must make haste. Go directly north. See, the North
Star is bright tonight.” Realizing her arms were trembling from the effort of
the climb, he pulled her into an embrace. Andromache cast a glance of entreaty
at Kalliades, who moved out of earshot.

“Please, my love, come with us,” she pleaded. “I swore to myself I would
never say this to you, but you and Kalliades will both go back to certain
death.”

Helikaon shook his head. “You know I cannot. I have friends in there,
comrades I have known most of my life. Some of them defended Dardanos for me. I
cannot leave them. It is my duty.”

“We both chose the path of duty before,” she argued. “It was a hard road, but
we walked it knowing each of us was doing the right thing. But Troy is now a
city of the dead. The only reason to return would be to die with your friends.
How will that benefit them? We must leave the dead behind us and set our faces
to the sunrise. Your duty now is to your ship and to your family, to me and to
your sons.”

But her last words were lost as Kalliades cried out. He had pulled on the
rope, ready to climb back up the cliff, but it fell toward him, looping to the
earth from the high window. Helikaon stared at the coils of rope and the cleanly
cut end. His chest tightened with fury at the betrayal.

Kalliades shouted up angrily at the figure they could see outlined in the
window, “Banokles!!”

His voice floated down to them: “May Ares guide your spear, Kalliades!”

Helikaon saw Kalliades lower his head for a moment, his face becoming grave.
Then he took a deep breath and called up to his friend, “He always does, sword
brother!”

They saw Banokles raise his hand in farewell. Then the window was empty.

Helikaon felt the fury in his chest. “What in the name of Hades is that idiot
doing?” he stormed.

Kalliades replied quietly, “He is saving my life.” He rubbed his eyes roughly
with the back of his hand, then added, as if to himself, “It’s something he
does.”

Helikaon looked up at the sheer walls. “I will climb again,” he promised.

Andromache turned to him, her face angry. “You cannot climb back! There will
be no one to throw a rope to you this time—unless it is the enemy. You must
leave now, Helikaon. Accept this gift that fate and Banokles have presented to
you. Return to the
Xanthos
and sail away from the dead past.”

She glanced at Kalliades, but the warrior still stood gazing up at the high
window, lost in his own thoughts. She placed her hand on Helikaon’s chest and
leaned into him. “You did not hear what I said, my love. I had hoped for a
better time to tell you. But Astyanax is your son—our son. You must save your
son.”

Helikaon stared at her wonderingly. The words made no sense. “How can that
be?”

She smiled a little. “Trust me, Helikaon. It is true. It was when you were
ill, deep in delirium. I will tell you about it when there is time and we are
alone. But both of these boys are your sons. You must help me take them to
safety. Dawn is coming, and I cannot get them to the
Xanthos
in time on
my own.”

Helikaon shook his head, bewildered. He felt suddenly like a ship adrift; the
certainties that had guided his life were being washed away by the storms of
fate.

He looked up at the window, an agony of indecision in his breast. Every
instinct in his body told him to climb back up to the palace. Even now he
believed he could make a difference and somehow defeat the hordes of the enemy
despite the odds. Then he thought of what he had said to his crew:
“I plan to
live.”

He nodded his head then, accepting his fate. “Very well, we will go to the
ship. Kalliades?”

The warrior turned toward him and admitted, “I cannot climb the cliff without
a rope. My leg is not strong enough. I accept the gift my old friend has given
me. I will come with you to the
Xanthos
if we can get there in time.”

He looked to the east, where the sky was showing dark red on the horizon.
“But it will be a close thing,” he predicted.

The going was difficult in the torchlight. The land was flat horse meadows
divided by small streams, but all was bone-dry, and they had to leap the ditches
or stumble across them. Helikaon, who knew the country well, led the way,
holding the torch and young Dex. His mind still in confusion, he thought of what
Andromache had told him. He recalled erotic dreams about her as he lay in a
fever in the palace of Hektor. He had guarded the dreams in his thoughts all
these years until the wondrous reality of her body had replaced them in his
memory. He wondered that she had kept silent about it throughout their voyage
together. Then he thought of Hektor’s death, and he understood.

He paused and glanced back to where Kalliades was following them with
Astyanax in his arms. The warrior’s face was pale; his leg clearly was troubling
him.

“Do not fear for me, Golden One,” he said, seeing Helikaon’s look. “I will
keep up.”

“I am sorry about Banokles,” Helikaon told him.

“Banokles lived each day as if it were his last. I never knew a man to take
so much from life. We should not grieve for Banokles.”

The light was starting to strengthen when Helikaon stopped, hearing a sound.
Then, out of the darkness, a group of men loomed. Helikaon swiftly set the boy
down and drew his blades. Kalliades moved alongside him, the sword of Argurios
in his hand.

They were a ragged army, twenty or more of them, some in armor and many of
them wounded. All had the ferocious look of men pushed beyond desperation. From
among them walked their leader. He wore a black and silver chin beard. He seemed
grayer and leaner, but Helikaon’s blood ran cold when he recognized the Mykene
admiral Menados.

“Well, Helikaon, this is a strange meeting on a night’s walk,” the admiral
said affably. “The Mykene renegade Kalliades, the Burner—most hated of Mykene’s
enemies—and a refugee family. Two boys. Let me see. Could it be that one of
these boys is the rightful king of Troy?”

Helikaon said nothing, watching the men, calculating their strength, planning
in which order to take them. He and Kalliades edged apart, making room to swing
their swords.

Menados mused, “Thanks to you, Helikaon, these brave men and I are now
outcasts. Agamemnon was not pleased that you destroyed an entire Mykene fleet.
But we might win back the king’s favor by delivering to him the last heir to
Troy.”

Helikaon spit out, “Make your play, Menados. We haven’t got all night.” From
the corner of his eye he saw the sun’s first rays lancing over the horizon.

Menados ignored him, addressing Kalliades. “You are free to join us,
Kalliades, as an outcast yourself. We are going not to the Golden City but back
to Mykene and the Lion’s Hall, there to suffer Agamemnon’s judgment—if he ever
returns.”

Kalliades answered him coolly, “The Law of the Road states that Helikaon’s
battle is mine. I will stand with him.”

Menados nodded, as if he had expected that response. “Loyalty has been much
prized among the Mykene, although that loyalty seemed often misplaced. You are
not the first Mykene warrior to stand side by side with the Trojans. The great
Argurios was a comrade of mine. We fought together in many battles. I admired
him more than any man I have ever known. Now, Helikaon, when last we encountered
each other, you chose the path of mercy. You undoubtedly are regretting that
now. And you told me that if we were ever to meet again, you would cut out my
heart and feed it to the crows. Is that still your intention?”

Helikaon snarled, “Try me, Menados!”

A voice behind Menados yelled, “Let’s take them, Admiral! The Burner is
accursed and must die!”

Another shouted, “The gods are with us, lord. They have brought the Burner
into our hands!” There was a chorus of agreement, and in the predawn gloom
Helikaon heard swords rasping from scabbards.

Menados turned to his men, annoyance in his voice. “I was speaking of loyalty
and mercy, two qualities which used to be admired by the Mykene.”

Behind Helikaon one of the boys started to cry from tiredness or fear.

Menados sighed and sheathed his sword. “Go your way, Helikaon. Matters are
now equal between us. I give you and your people your lives, just as you once
gave me mine. In the name of the great Argurios.”

There were angry shouts from Menados’ men, but no one made a move. Helikaon
guessed that their loyalty to Menados or fear of him was stronger than their
need for vengeance.

Swords still at the ready, the two warriors walked watchfully past the Mykene
band. Andromache, with Astyanax on one hip and holding Dex by the hand, followed
them.

As they raced on, Helikaon strained his eyes to find the dark bulk of the
Xanthos
in the distance. The ball of the sun, rising out of the mist to
their right, was almost clear of the horizon, and they still had a way to go.

“We cannot make it,” Kalliades calmly pointed out. Helikaon’s heart sank. The
man was right. It was impossible to get to the ship before she sailed.

Then, from out of the west, he heard a shout. He paused and turned. A horse
was cantering toward them across the rough ground, leaping the ditches, its
rider waving to them and shouting. As he came closer, Helikaon saw that he was
wearing the armor of the Trojan Horse.

“Skorpios!” Kalliades cried out in delight. “How in Hades are you here? We
thought you long dead!”

“It does not matter!” Helikaon shouted. “Get down, lad! I don’t know who you
are or what you’re doing here, but I need that horse!”

The fair-haired rider slid quickly off his mount, and Helikaon vaulted on. He
grabbed the reins and kicked the beast into a run, heading north toward the
river at full pelt. Behind them he heard the newcomer ask, “Where’s he going
with my horse? And where’s Banokles?”

Banokles watched Helikaon climb down the rope into the night. Then he heard
Kalliades’ voice call to him for a torch. He grabbed one off the wall and threw
it down to him. He watched it spiral into darkness, then returned to the crowded
gathering room to see who else could be saved. But among the many wounded and
dying there were none who had the strength to lower themselves to safety—only
the healer.

He told the boy curtly, “On your way, lad. There is a rope from the window of
the rear chamber leading down to the ground. Climb down it and save yourself.”

The boy continued sewing a soldier’s scalp wound. There was blood everywhere,
and his fingers kept slipping on the bronze needle as he worked.

Without looking up, the healer replied, “I will stay.”

Banokles grabbed the boy by the front of his clothing and dragged him
upright, shaking him like a rat.

“That was not a polite request, boy, but an order. Go when I tell you!”

“With respect, sir,” the healer said, his face reddening, “I am not a soldier
for you to command, and I will not go. I am needed here.”

Frustrated, Banokles flung him down. He could not force the boy to go. What
could he do, throw him out the window? He stalked back to the rear chamber and
without hesitation cut the rope. He waited, grinning to himself, and shortly he
heard Kalliades’ voice shouting, “Banokles!”

He leaned over the window ledge and called down to his old friend, “May Ares
guide your spear, Kalliades!”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Kalliades shouted back, “He always does,
sword brother.”

Banokles waved farewell. Red always had told him that Kalliades would get him
killed, and here he was saving his friend from certain death. In high good
humor, he went out to the stone corridor where the last three Eagles were
holding back the enemy. There was room only for one man at a time to swing a
sword, so each combatant faced a duel to the death. He saw one Eagle cut down, a
sword through his belly, and a comrade take his place. Two more to go, he
thought, and went back into the gathering room.

He saw the king’s aide Polydorus lying propped against a wall, blood drying
on his chest and stomach. He always had liked the man. He was a thinker, like
Kalliades, and a doughty fighter, too. Looking at Polydorus’ face with his
veteran’s eye, he guessed the warrior probably would survive if given time to
heal. Banokles always told Kalliades that he knew if a wounded soldier would
live or die, and he was very seldom wrong. Well, actually he was often wrong,
but he was the only one keeping score.

He squatted down.

“How are we doing?” Polydorus asked with a faint smile.

“There are two Eagles left, holding the corridor, then I’ll go in.”

“You’d better go now, Banokles.”

Banokles shrugged. “In a moment. You Eagles are a gutsy bunch.” He frowned.
“Can you believe that boy refused to leave?” He nodded toward the healer.

Polydorus smiled. “You could leave, Banokles. You chose not to. What’s the
difference?”

For a moment Banokles was astonished. It never had entered his head that he
could have climbed down the rope, too.

“I’m a soldier,” he answered lamely.

“Yet you are under no man’s orders. Has it occurred to you, Banokles, that
now that Hektor’s son has left the city, you, as the senior soldier here, are
truly king of Troy?”

Banokles was delighted by the idea, and he laughed. “The king? I never
thought I’d be a king. Shouldn’t I have a crown or something?”