Stella Gemmell - Fall of Kings

In the early morning he could hear movement all over his city: donkeys braying and roosters crowing, the sounds of carts and horses’ hooves on the stone roads, the shouting as soldiers changed shifts and seamen made their way down to the beach for dawn sailings. He imagined bleary-eyed bakers kneading dough and tired whores making for their beds. Atop the Great Tower of Ilion the four night torches still flickered.

Priam’s eye was drawn constantly to the dark shape of the tower. He used to climb its steep steps every morning to watch the sun rise and look over the city, but he had neglected the practice in recent days.

“How long since I last went to the tower, Polydorus?”

“In the high summer, lord.”

“So long? Time flies swifter than the orioles. I will go tomorrow. The people should see their king keeping watch over them.”

“Yes, lord,” Polydorus said. “Shall I bring your wine?”

Priam licked his lips. The thought of wine was tempting. Indeed, he ached for the taste. “No,” he said at last, the effort of will bringing with it a surge of anger. “No wine today, Polydorus.” There was a time when he had enjoyed his wine as a man should, as an enhancer to the joys of dancing, singing, and sex. Now he thought of it constantly, organizing his day around bouts of heavy drinking. Not today, though. Today he would need his wits about him. No wine will pass my lips until tomorrow, he promised himself.

“Are my visitors here yet?”

“I’ll see, lord.” The young soldier slipped away.

Alone now, Priam thought of Andromache, visions of her bringing a tightness to his chest and a warmth in his belly. Andromache! It was too long since he had seen her. His gaze was caught again by the great tower. He could not see it without thinking of her. He first had met her on its heights, when she had refused to kneel to him, as had his own Hekabe so many years before. Andromache! He allowed himself to remember her as he had seen her that day, in a yellow gown, her flame hair tied back roughly, her eyes bold, gazing at him in a way no young woman should look at a king. He had tried to frighten her, but even as they had stood on the parapet together and she had realized he could send her smashing to the stones below with a single push, he had seen in her eyes that she was ready to reach out and take him with her on the Dark Road to Hades.

And later, when she finally had surrendered to him, as he had known she would, he had glanced out into the darkness and seen the torches on the great tower ablaze. He had known then that his entire life had been destined for that one act. All the battles he had fought, all the sons he had sired—mostly a waste of energy and seed. Even the years with his beloved Hekabe had faded into gray futility. His night with Andromache had fulfilled the prophecy. The Shield of Thunder had brought forth the Eagle Child, and Troy would last a thousand years. He was a king complete, yet his loins still ached for her. Not a day went by that he did not regret the promise he had made her. She had agreed to share his bed—but only until she fell pregnant. She had demanded his word that he would honor that agreement. And he had given it. Fool!

Even so, he had been convinced that she would return to him. Trapped in a loveless marriage with an impotent husband—of course she would.

Yet she had not, and it still mystified him.

“Hektor and Andromache await you in the Amber Room, lord,” Polydorus said, emerging from the doorway. “I have sent a soldier to find Helikaon.”

“He is Prince Aeneas, ” Priam snapped. “A noble name, long held in high esteem by my family.”

“Yes, my lord king. I am sorry. I forgot for an instant.”

Priam strolled from his chambers and walked along the wide corridor, Polydorus following him. The room where his guests waited was on the south side of the palace, away from the cold winter winds. Even so there was a chill in the air.

Waiting for him were Andromache, Hektor, and the young Dardanian king. Leaving Polydorus outside to guard the door, Priam stepped inside to greet them. As he did so, he could not stop his eyes from lingering on Andromache: the curve of her breasts beneath the yellow gown, the bright green of her eyes, the lusciousness of her lips.

Tearing his gaze away, he said, “Aeneas, my boy, I grieve for you. When my own dear Hekabe died, it was as if my heart had been pierced by a flaming arrow.”

Priam gazed around the room. There was tension there. Andromache was sitting stiffly, her hands folded on her lap. Hektor was standing behind her, his expression stern, his eyes cold. Aeneas seemed oddly ill at ease. Did they know what he was about to ask them? The priestess had arrived only late yesterday but since then might have spoken of the matter to a servant. Instantly he dismissed the thought. The priestess was a tight-lipped old witch and hardly likely to gossip to palace servants. No, there was something else here. Pushing that minor problem from his mind, he focused on the matter at hand.

Looking at Aeneas, he asked: “Is it still your intention to risk the winter seas and voyage west?”

His kinsman nodded. “We need the tin,” he said simply. “With all the sources through Kypros drying up and the Hittites using all the tin they can get, we must seek it from farther afield. If I leave directly, I can get to the Seven Hills well ahead of Odysseus, who will probably winter on Ithaka as he always has.”

Though perilous, it was a good plan, Priam knew. Without tin there could be no bronze for the smiths to work. Without bronze, no swords, no spears, no shields, no helms. Without bronze there could be no victory over the Mykene.

“And you will take the Xanthos ? You will not pass unnoticed in that fire-hurling monstrosity.”

“No, I will not,” Aeneas agreed. “But with a full complement of eighty she is faster than any galley and will withstand the stormy seas. Added to which she will carry more tin than any three galleys could. As to monstrosity, well… I do not doubt Agamemnon would agree with you.”

Then Hektor spoke. “If any ship can make it to the Seven Hills in winter and return safely, it is the Xanthos. We must assume Agamemnon will attack again in the spring, be it Dardanos or Thebe-Under-Plakos or Troy itself, and we must have the armor for our troops. I agree: Helikaon should leave as soon as possible.”

“As soon as possible, yes,” Priam said, walking to a small carved table and pouring himself a goblet of water. He glanced again at Andromache. She was wearing a necklace of sea horses carved from ivory. Sea horse clasps held back her thick red hair. She sat with her hands in her lap and watched him gravely. If she wondered why she had been asked there, she gave no indication.

“There is something else we must discuss,” he told them. “Yesterday a representative of the High Priestess arrived from Thera. It seems, Andromache, a decision has been made about your young friend, the renegade priestess.”

“Kalliope. Her name was Kalliope.” Andromache’s voice was low, but the king could hear the tension in it.

“Yes, Kalliope. As we all know, the punishment for a runaway is to be buried alive on the isle to serve the Sleeping God. This punishment still stands. They require that the girl’s bones be returned to Thera in the spring for burial there, where her soul will be chained to serve the Minotaur for all eternity.”

Andromache opened her mouth to speak, but Priam held up his hand. “Let me finish. Those who aid a runaway must also suffer. Burning is the usual punishment. But the two Mykene soldiers who helped her are now valued members of the Trojan Horse. As patron of the Blessed Isle I have decided that they were unknowing dupes. The High Priestess can make her own representations to Odysseus, who also helped the girl. However, this leaves you, Andromache.”