Fall of Kings (64 page)

He smiled to himself. Once he had found Priam’s stolen treasure, he would
return to the Lion’s Hall in triumph. The boy-king Astyanax need not concern
him. Mykene soldiers, spies, and agents would hunt him down relentlessly, and
Helikaon the Burner, too, and the bitch Andromache. He still held hopes of
finding them on Thera. He would take great pleasure in their deaths, which would
be lingering and agonizing.

As the fleet approached its harbor, the Mykene king could see a heavy gray
pall lying over Thera. The black isle at its center was much bigger than he
remembered, and a column of smoke was rising from the top. He heard the rumble
of a small earthquake like a portent of doom. He shivered.

“My king,” said his aide Kleitos, “the beach is empty. The
Xanthos
is
not here.”

“Then the vile Helikaon must have been to the island already and left. He can
be no more than half a day ahead. He will not expect to be followed, so he will
be taking his time.”

“What do we do, my king?”

Agamemnon thought swiftly. “Send six of our ships around the black isle to
ensure that the
Xanthos
is not hiding on the other side. We will go
ashore and find Priam’s insane daughter. I will make her tell us where Helikaon
is. She claims to be prescient, and now she can prove that claim. If she is no
longer here and we find no treasure, we sail on to Ithaka.”

My visit to Ithaka is long overdue, he thought. I will revel in the deaths of
the fat fool Odysseus and his family.

Agamemnon’s flagship and the Kretan war galley beached on the black sand, and
the three kings stepped ashore with their bodyguards. There were hundreds of
dead rats on the strand, and it was difficult to cross the beach without
treading on their carcasses. A pungent smell of blood and burning lay over the
island.

“Why are all these rats here?” Menelaus questioned nervously. “And that black
isle is growing. There is the stench of witchcraft here. I do not like this
place.”

Idomeneos, who as usual was garbed in full armor, growled, “An island of
women is an abomination. We have all heard tales of the unnatural practices they
revel in. It will be pleasant to see the witches sold into slavery.”

Menelaus was astonished. “But they are all princesses, some of them daughters
of our allies!”

Idomeneos turned on him. “And will you go running to tell them, you fat
lapdog?” he spit.

Irritably, Agamemnon told them, “We are near the end of our journey. We will
not have to suffer each other’s company much longer. Now, follow me!”

He set a fast pace up the cliff path, with bodyguards in front and behind.
They were near the top when there was the low grumble of another quake. They all
froze for a heartbeat, then threw themselves to the ground as the earth shook
under them. Two guards ahead of them were dislodged from the path and fell,
plummeting to the rocky shore below. Agamemnon closed his eyes and waited grimly
for the ground to stop moving. Something deep inside screamed at him to run to
his ship and race away from this witches’ isle. He ruthlessly suppressed it.

It was a while before the kings cautiously picked themselves up. A thick
layer of gray ash lay over them, and they brushed it off their clothes.
Agamemnon stalked off angrily. “This island is cursed,” he agreed with his
brother. “We will take what we need and leave quickly!”

Menelaus looked around. “It is very quiet,” he muttered.

As Agamemnon breasted the top of the cliff, he saw the Great Horse temple
looming above him. A faint, elusive memory touched the edge of his mind, but he
forgot it as he saw one of the priestesses stumbling toward him. She was an old
crone and had difficulty walking, but she struggled forward, holding her arms
out in front of her as if to touch him. Agamemnon drew his sword. He lanced it
into the old woman’s skinny breast and walked on, leaving her in a pool of
blood.

Agamemnon handed the etched and decorated sword to a soldier to clean, then
returned it to its scabbard, feeling more elated than he had for days. He strode
between the horse’s front hooves and into the temple.

It was cold and very dark in there. All he could see at first were bright
shafts of daylight streaming vertically from the roof. He paused to give his
bodyguards time to fan out in front of him. There were only women there, but he
felt unnerved by the strangeness of the isle.

“My king!” With his sword the Follower indicated a gloomy corner where a
dark-haired young woman lay on a pallet bed. She was singing quietly to herself,
her eyes closed.

Without opening them, she cried, “Fire in the sky and a mountain of water
touching the clouds! Beware the Great Horse, Agamemnon King!” The words nudged
the elusive memory in Agamemnon’s mind.

Then the girl sat up and turned to look at them, sitting on the edge of the
bed, swinging her legs like a child. She was an ugly creature, he thought, dirty
and thin as a blade.

“Words of prophecy, King!” she told him. “Words of power! But you did not
listen then, and you will not hear me now.” Agamemnon realized that the mad girl
had been quoting the words of the priest of the Cave of Wings long ago. How
could she know? He was the only one still alive who’d heard the prophecy.

The girl cocked her head and frowned. “You killed Iphigenia,” she said sadly.
“I did not foresee that. Poor Iphigenia.”

Agamemnon heard a gasp and turned to see Menelaus hurrying from the temple.
So that old crone was our sister, he thought. I never could abide her.

“You have defiled the temple with your bright armor and sharp swords,”
Kassandra told him. “You have killed a virgin of the temple.”

Agamemnon snorted. “Will the demigod eat me up?” he asked scornfully.

She looked up at him and locked her eyes with his. “Yes,” she told him
simply. “Something is rising.”

He felt a cold trickle down his spine and realized the ground was trembling
continuously now, making an infinitely deep note that set his teeth on edge. A
headache formed screaming behind his eyes.

“Stand her up!” he ordered, unsheathing his sword again.

Two soldiers grabbed an arm each and lifted Kassandra. She hung like a doll
between them, her toes barely touching the ground. The Mykene king placed the
tip of his sword against her belly, but the blade seemed to shimmer and buckle
in front of his eyes, as if it had been placed in a furnace. He blinked, and it
was whole again. He rubbed at the ash and grit in his eyes.

“Where is Helikaon?” he demanded, and was relieved to hear that his voice was
firm.

“I would have offered you a forest of truth, but you wish to speak of a
single leaf,” she quoted. “Helikaon is far away.”

Her gaze went inward. She frowned. “Hurry, Helikaon. You must hurry!”

“Is he going to Ithaka?”

She shook her head. “Helikaon will never see Ithaka again.”

“And Priam’s treasure, girl? Does he have the treasure?”

“There is no treasure, King. It was all spent long ago. On sharp swords and
shiny breastplates. Polites told me. I have seen him with his wife. They are
very happy. Just three copper rings left,” she told him. “The price of a whore.”

In frustration Agamemnon made to strike her, but another fierce quake made
them all stumble. Kassandra fell from the soldiers’ grip and slipped past the
armored men and out of the temple. Agamemnon followed her, cursing.

She had not gone far. She was standing outside, staring at the Burned Isle,
where dense black smoke was boiling from the summit. A thick layer of ash lay on
the ground. Nearby Menelaus sat weeping beside the body of his sister. Both were
covered in ash and looked like stone statues.

Kassandra glanced at Agamemnon. “You see, there is a great chamber under
Thera, full of fire and burning rock. Perhaps it is where the god lives—I don’t
know. But it has been growing for generations, and now it is about to burst from
its restraints. Hot air and dust and rocks will come spewing out. Then, as the
fire chamber empties, its roof will collapse and the sea will pour in. Seawater
and fire are enemies, you see. They will battle to get away from each other;
then the island will soar into the sky like a pebble thrown by a child. We will
ride with it. It will be glorious!” She turned toward him with a brilliant
smile, inviting him to join her rejoicing.

“The girl is demented,” Idomeneos cried, but his voice sounded thin and
frightened.

The sky darkened, and Agamemnon looked up to see a huge flock of birds fly
overhead toward the west, thousands of them blocking out the gray hazy light,
their screaming voices like those of Harpies.

Kassandra waved at them, a childish gesture, her hand moving up and down.
“Bye bye, birds,” she said. “Bye bye.” The Mykene king shuddered and felt panic
tightening his chest.

“Everyone is waiting for me,” Kassandra told the kings happily as the ground
shook violently again. “Mother is waiting for me. And Hektor and Laodike. They
are just beyond.”

Suddenly she stood on her tiptoes and pointed to the Burned Isle. There was a
noise like a thousand thunders, and a hot black pillar erupted from the top of
the volcano and soared into the sky. The monstrous sound it made broke something
in his ears, and Agamemnon screamed and fell to the ground as blood poured out
of them. Hands to his head, he looked up to see the tower of black fire roaring
higher and higher. The sound was intolerable, and the blast of heat from it
scorched the skin of his face. Great boulders were flung from the volcano,
soaring like pebbles through the sky to crash into the sea and onto the isle
near them, destroying buildings and narrowly missing the temple. The sound was
appalling, and Agamemnon thought he would go mad from the power of it.

Kassandra was the only one still standing, without fear as she gazed at the
tower of fire rising. It seemed to go up forever. Then it slowed, and the top of
it started flowing outward, spreading its canopy of smoke and ash wider and
wider, darkening the earth and blotting out the sun.

Kassandra looked down at Agamemnon compassionately. She seemed to have grown
taller and stronger, and he wondered why he had thought her ugly. Her face was
radiant, and she blazed with beauty like a sword in a flame.

Then she pointed again, and from the top of the volcano a red-brown flow like
a glowing avalanche started to belch out and move down the slopes. It slithered
swiftly over the black rocks of the Burned Isle and soon reached the sea.
Agamemnon got to his feet with difficulty, for they were all knee-deep in warm
ash. He saw that his ships were under oars, beating their way as fast as they
could row toward the harbor entrance. The cowards are leaving me, he screamed
inside his head. He saw Idomeneos shouting but could not hear what he said.

Agamemnon thought the red-hot avalanche would stop when it reached the sea,
but instead it carried straight on, rolling across the surface toward the fleet.
Long before it reached the first ship, the vessel burst into flames, burning
hotly before it was engulfed in the hideous flow. One by one the galleys were
overtaken and destroyed, their crews blackened and charred in an instant. When
it reached the base of the cliffs on which they stood, the rolling avalanche of
fire started to crawl up toward them, but then it slowed to a halt. Agamemnon
breathed out shakily.

His relief lasted only for a few heartbeats. There was another terrifying
sound from deep in the earth beneath them. As he watched, he saw the sea in the
harbor dent in the middle, and an enormous whirlpool started to form, sluggishly
at first and then with greater speed. There was another great noise, an army of
thunders, and the sea suddenly fell away from them, swallowed instantly into the
earth. The entire fleet of charred ships disappeared in moments as sea rushed
into the harbor to pour into the hole in the world.

There was a building roar, and the ground started to shake wildly.

Agamemnon’s last sight was of Kassandra, a joyous smile on her face, as she
waved goodbye.

He closed his eyes.

Then the island rose up under them and flung the kings screaming into the
sky.

Not far to the west Helikaon stood on the aft deck of the
Xanthos,
his
arm draped loosely over the steering oar, looking up at the sail stretched taut
against the wind. He was at his happiest when the black horse danced over the
waves. Although there were sixty or more men lounging about on the decks,
gossiping, eating and drinking, laughing and telling tall tales, he felt alone
with his ship when she was under sail. He could feel the shift and groan of the
timbers beneath his bare feet, hear the finest vibrations of the huge sail, and
sense through the oak of the steering oar the valiant heart of the galley. You
are the queen of the seas, he told his ship as she cut through the waves, rising
and falling with grace and power.

His eyes moved, as they always did when given the chance, to Andromache. She
was sitting on the forward deck under the yellow canopy. The boys were curled up
beside her. They had been running around the ship all morning, delighted to have
the oarsmen at their beck and call to play games with them and tell them tales
of the sea. Now, tired out, they were both asleep under the canopy, protected
from the noonday sun.

Andromache was gazing back toward Thera, though the island was now out of
sight. Helikaon knew her heart now and understood that she did not regret
leaving Kassandra, as the girl had asked. Yet it had made Andromache sad to
leave her sister to a lonely death, cared for only by the old priestess.
Helikaon had spent some time since their departure cursing himself for not
climbing the cliffs to fetch the girl, then had put those feelings aside
ruthlessly. The decision was made. He always would remember Kassandra with love,
but she was now part of the past.