Stella Gemmell - Fall of Kings

For a heartbeat Andromache did not. Then she saw that three fingers had been cut away from his right hand, and the memory came back to her of a moment in a street when a drunken man, a veteran of the Trojan Horse, had called her a goddess.

“You are Pardones. I thank you for my life, Pardones.”

The dying man said something, but it was so weak that she could not hear it. She bent down to him. “Kept it,” he murmured. Then the rasp of his breath abruptly stopped.

She sat back, tears in her eyes, and saw on the floor beside his dead hand the golden brooch she had given him for his courtesy and loyalty.

Wiping her face on the back of her hand, she got up, cast a last glance at the megaron where Helikaon fought on, then followed Kalliades’ orders and ran back down the stone corridor to the queen’s apartments.

The gathering room was a scene of carnage. Dozens of gravely wounded soldiers lay on the floor, dragged there by comrades or civilians. There were a few injured women. Andromache saw that Penthesileia had been brought there, still alive but ashen-faced. Lying with her was Anio, her head in her sister’s lap. Young Xander was moving from person to person, overwhelmed by the number of injured yet carrying on, stanching wounds, comforting the wounded, holding the hands of the dying. He looked up at her, and she saw that his face was gray.

Kalliades had followed her in, covered in blood, some of it from a wound high in his chest.

“They have the gallery,” he told her urgently. “We can hold the stone corridor for a while, but you must get ready to leave with the boys.”

“Helikaon?” she asked, her heart in her mouth.

But at that moment Helikaon and Banokles entered the gathering room, carrying Polydorus, who was badly wounded. They laid the Eagle on the floor, then Helikaon turned to Andromache.

“You must go now,” he told her, and she heard the agony in his voice. You must go, she thought with a stab of fear. Not we must go. She knew he would stay and fight to the end. She would not try to change his mind.

They hurried to the room where the little boys slept on. She woke them, and they rubbed their eyes and looked wonderingly at the blood-covered warriors around their bed.

Helikaon lifted Andromache’s hand to his lips, and she winced. “You are wounded?” he asked anxiously.

“Yesterday,” she admitted, showing him her shoulder. “It has opened up again. I will need help with the boys.”

“You cannot take two children down the rope on your own, anyway,” he said. “I will carry them down.” Hope flared in her, then died when he dropped his eyes. “Then I must return,” he told her.

“You take Dex,” Kalliades suggested. “I will carry Astyanax. He knows me, and we have shared adventures before.” He picked up the little boy, who confidently put his arms around the warrior’s neck.

“Whatever you’re going to do, do it quickly,” urged Banokles, who had been listening to the fighting in the stone corridor.

“Strap the child to me,” Kalliades told his friend, handing him a length of bandage. In a moment Banokles had wound the bandage around him, tying the child tightly to his chest. Kalliades walked to the window. Astyanax grinned over his shoulder at Andromache and waved his hand at her, thrilled by the excitement.

“You had better take this,” Banokles said suddenly. Kalliades looked at the weapon he was holding out.

“The sword of Argurios! I had lost it!”

“I found it on the stairs. Take it with you.”

“It will hamper me on my climb. Keep it until I get back.”

“You don’t know what might happen down there. Take it.”

Kalliades shrugged and sheathed the sword. He climbed out the window, disappearing into the night.

“You next, my love,” Helikaon said to Andromache. “Can you climb down with that wound?”

“I can make it,” she reassured him, although privately she had doubts. Her heart was thudding in her chest. She cast a last glance at the blond warrior. “Thank you, Banokles,” she said. It seemed inadequate after all he had done for her. Before he could step back, she darted forward and kissed his cheek. Banokles nodded, his face reddening.

Andromache sat on the window ledge and swung her legs around. Grabbing hold of the rope, she started her descent.

With his small son Dex strapped to his body, Helikaon climbed hand over hand down the rope after Kalliades and Andromache. He was anxious to return to the palace quickly and could think only of the coming struggle. He knew that Agamemnon would show himself at the last and that Helikaon would be waiting for him. No matter how many elite warriors the Mykene king sent against him, he was determined to survive long enough to confront Agamemnon and kill him if it was in his power.

His feet reached the ground, and he pulled away the bandages holding Dex to him.

“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.”