Fall of Kings

CHAPTER TWENTY ANDROMACHE’S CHOICE

Andromache stood at the prow of the Xanthos and breathed in the fresh salt air as the great ship glided through a light swell. She always had loved the days of spring, when the snows melted on great Ida and the rivers and streams around her home of Little Thebe filled and sparkled with clear icy water, its wooded hills and valleys clothed in pale green rain-washed leaves.

When she had been sent by her father as a priestess to Thera, she had thought of Thebe Under Plakos as her home. But by the time she was dispatched unhappily to Troy to marry Hektor, Thera had become home to her. Now here she was, on the Xanthos and less than a day’s sail from the Golden City. Where is your home now, Andromache? she thought. Is it Troy, where you yearn to hold your son in your arms again?

Or is it on this ship, where you have lived and loved for endless winter days of fear and longing and bliss?

Once the crewmen had gotten used to a woman aboard the ship, they had stopped calling her “princess” or “priestess” and had ceased glancing covertly at her legs and breasts at all opportunities. She had found a home on the big ship. She joined the men at their campfires at night, shared their meals, distributed water skins when the ship was under oars, helped sluice down the decks, and even was asked to sew a ragged rip in the sail after a rough day in stormy seas.

“I am the daughter of a king and wife to Hektor,” she had said, laughing, “and you are sailors. You know more about sewing than I do!” Yet she had done her best with the sharp needles and sturdy thread they had given her and had pretended not to notice when her poor stitches were remade for her by a grizzled crewman whose fingers were more nimble than hers.

One calm day Oniacus had offered to teach her to row, and she had grasped the great oar and learned to pull with the motion of the sea. But within a short time her palms were covered with bleeding blisters, and Helikaon had told her angrily to stop.

Helikaon! She did not turn around, for she knew he would be standing at the stern of the ship, one arm on the great steering oar, watching her. Closing her eyes, she could recall every detail of his face, the fine dark hairs of his eyebrows, the exact set of the corners of his mouth, the shape of his ears. In her mind’s eye she could see his bronzed arm with its soft sun-bleached hairs draped across the steering oar, as she had seen it a hundred times. She knew every scar on his body by touch and taste. He was wearing a long winter robe of blue wool, the same color as his eyes when he was angry, and his feet were in old sandals stained by salt and time.

They had tried to follow the counsel of Odysseus at first and stay away from each other, not touching, not brushing past each other on the narrow aisle of the ship, barely speaking unless there were crewmen present. Their determination had lasted until they had reached the Seven Hills.

Andromache had been astonished by the small thriving city built by Helikaon and Odysseus so far from their homes. The stockaded fort was on a hill overlooking the great river Thybris, and a busy community had developed around it, flourishing in the soft, verdant land so different from Ithaka and Dardanos. The people had started building a stone wall around the fort, for they had to fend off attacks from local tribes that resented the presence of foreigners from far across the seas. But the king of one of the tribes, Latinus, had welcomed them and joined his forces to theirs, and the community of the Seven Hills grew. They had purchased tin from pale-skinned traders traveling from far to the north in the Land of Mists, and Helikaon had been able to fill the Xanthos’ cargo hold with the precious metal.

One night a feast was held in honor of one of the country’s tribal gods, and the crewmen of the Xanthos joined in with relish. In the firelight Andromache, a little drunk, caught Helikaon’s eye and smiled. No further message was needed. Unseen, they crept away and found a soft mossy hollow far from the revels, where they made love for most of the night, first with frantic animal passion and then, later, gently and tenderly until the first glimmer of dawn. Little was said; they had no need of words.

Back on board the ship, returning to Troy with all haste, the lovers had stayed away from each other again. Helikaon had steered the Xanthos up the coast of Mykene, which was deserted of ships, then crossed the Great Green high to the north. They had spent the last night before their return to Troy in a deep cove on the isle of Samothraki. Andromache had remained on board the ship in her small tent pitched on the foredeck, and Helikaon had come to her in the darkness.

The night was pitch black, but she heard the small soft sound of the tent flaps being parted, smelled the musky smell of him as he lay down beside her. He said nothing but pulled down the sheepskin covering her body and kissed her shoulder. She turned to him. He kissed her mouth deeply, and the swell of suppressed longing in her rose so sharply that it was painful. She moaned. He put his hand over her mouth. “No sounds,” he whispered in her ear. She nodded her head, then gently bit the palm of his hand, tasting salt. He smiled against her cheek. He slid under the warm sheepskin and moved on top of her, his body cool against her fiery loins. Her legs rose up to meet him, and he entered her, warm and wet in the animal-smelling darkness.

He paused for a few unbearable heartbeats, then moved against her slowly. Too slowly. She squirmed under him, seeking a quick release from the painful longing of her body. He stopped until she lay still, then moved again, teasing her. When she finally climaxed, the need to cry out became almost unstoppable, and he put his hand over her mouth again, then kissed her hard. He lay still for mere moments, then started again.

At last, drained and exhausted, he rolled away from her, and they pushed off the damp animal skin and let the sweat dry on their bodies.

She whispered in his ear, “Tomorrow we will be back in Troy.”

“Not now, my love,” he murmured. “We will have plenty of time to talk about it tomorrow.” They spoke no more that night.

Now, standing on the foredeck of the ship, Andromache closed her eyes again and let her body move dreamily with the rhythms of the waves, remembering that wondrous night and its own rhythms.

When she opened her eyes, she could see a dark speck on the blue sea to her left.

“Ship to port!” she cried, pointing, and within heartbeats she felt the great ship move beneath her toward the new threat. She narrowed her eyes. She could see it was a galley under sail, no mere fishing boat, but could not make out its markings.

“It’s Dardanian, lord!” shouted Praxos, new to the crew the previous autumn and with the sharp eyes of the young. “I can see the black horse!”

There was a lusty cheer from the oarsmen, most of whom were Dardanians and were looking forward to returning to their families. As Andromache watched, the other ship’s sail was furled and her rowers took up the beat. The two ships glided toward each other. As they met, rowers on the approaching sides shipped their oars, and ropes were thrown across, lashing the ships together.

Andromache made her way along the aisle of the Xanthos to the stern. Helikaon glanced at her, his face expressionless. “It is the Boreas,” he said.

They waited in silence as the Dardanian ship’s young fair-haired captain shinnied up a rope, climbed to the deck, and fell to his knees before Helikaon. “Golden One, thank the mercy of Poseidon we met you,” he said breathlessly. “We were expecting the Xanthos to sail up the coast, and most of our ships are off Lesbos, waiting for you.”

“Calm down, Asios. Why was the Boreas waiting?”

“Troy is under siege, lord,” the young man told him, “and the Mykene fleet of Menados holds the entrance to the Hellespont. Agamemnon is camped in the Bay of Herakles with a thousand ships. We hoped to warn you before you sailed unknowing into them.”

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.

“We have a hold full of it, Cousin.”

Hektor sighed with relief. “Your mad bronzesmith Khalkeus tells me he can cast strong swords from the metal of Ares, but he has yet to show me one. Meanwhile, our forges are dark. We could not contine the fight without your cargo. Let them unload with all speed, and we will speak.”

He gestured, and from the darkness emerged men leading donkey carts. Some of the newcomers swarmed up ropes onto the deck of the Xanthos. There were quiet words of greeting as old friends met again; then the hold doors were opened, and they started unloading the precious metal. Hektor led Helikaon and Andromache a short way across the flat marsh to where a small hillock hid a glowing campfire. The three sat down. Hektor undid his cloak, and Andromache could see that he was garbed in full armor.

“The news we hear from Troy is grave,” Helikaon said. “Antiphones and Paris both dead. And poor Helen.”

“What of her children?” Andromache asked.

Hektor shook his head, and his silence told them everything. In the light from the fire, Andromache could see he had aged ten years since she last had seen him. His eyes sat in dark hollows, and sorrow and grief seemed permanently etched on his features. He rubbed his hands over the fire. He seemed lost in thought for a while; then he shivered as if bitter memories were returning to plague him.

He shook his head and said, “Never in my worst nightmares did I believe Agamemnon could field so many warriors.” For a while he paused, his face haunted. “Have you heard how we lost the battle for the Scamander? The treachery of the Fat King and his Lykians won the day for the western kings. After that the enemy took the fortification ditch quickly, within a day. They swarmed over it. They had the scent of victory in their nostrils, and we were hampered by trying to save our wounded.

“We have defended the lower town now for ten days, forcing Agamemnon’s armies to battle for every wall, the smallest flagstone, every bloodstained pace. There has been carnage on both sides. But all the while they were fighting to win the town, they could not surround the great walls, and we could get women and children out and your cargo in. This was our hope. Now you are here, and with the protection of Athene we will smuggle the tin into the city tonight. The forges will all be at work before dawn.

“Then,” Hektor said, looking at them, “tomorrow night, under cover of darkness, we will pull our troops back, retreat behind the walls, leave the enemy the lower town, and seal the gates.”

There was shocked silence. Then Andromache said, “But you have always believed Troy under siege would be doomed.”

Hektor nodded and stared at his hands, then started rubbing them together again, as if he could not get warm. “But I was a younger man then,” he said ruefully, “who had not seen the horrors I have seen. I always feared treachery. Our history and yours, Helikaon, tells us there is always a traitor. But now we are sealing the great gates. The West and East gates have been bricked up. Only the Scaean Gate will be left open, and the Dardanian Gate. And those can only be opened on my personal command or Polites’.”

“Polites?” Helikaon asked, frowning.

Hektor sighed. “With Dios dead and Antiphones, too, Father… Father can no longer be trusted to make decisions about the war. You have missed a great deal in the season you have been away.

“From today Polites is in charge of the defense of Troy. I will not go back there tonight. And at dawn tomorrow the Trojan Horse will ride from the Golden City, never to return until Agamemnon destroys her or gives up the fight.”

Helikaon nodded his understanding, but Andromache said, “The Trojan Horse abandon Troy? Why?”

Hektor explained gently. “We cannot be trapped in the city, Andromache. Cavalry is useless there, and we will not be able to feed the horses if the siege goes on through the summer. Water will also be in short supply. The Trojan Horse must be free to attack the enemy where they least expect it, destroy Agamemnon’s supply lines, seek out his weakest links and slice through them.”

Helikaon said, “I see that they must leave the city. But must you go with them, Cousin? If you stay in Troy, you will give the people heart. Polites is a good man, but he cannot inspire with his leadership as you can. You are the heart and soul of Troy. You are needed there. Put Kalliades in charge of the Horse. He has a fine strategic mind.”

“I have thought long and hard about it,” Hektor admitted. “But there will be nothing for me to do in a siege. I need to do the one thing I am good at.” He paused and sighed. “I can fight, and I can kill. I cannot do that behind high walls.”

Helikaon opened his mouth to speak again, but Hektor held up his hand. “My choice is made, Helikaon. The walls are impregnable. Polites will have to decide on rationing, the care of the wounded, and the safety of the gates. He will be better at all that than I.”

He looked at them, from one to the other. “But you must leave as soon as possible, both of you, once the ship is unloaded. Helikaon, the Xanthos is like the Trojan Horse. She can do little stuck in the bay, but she is priceless to our cause on the open seas, attacking Agamemnon’s supply routes, sinking his ships. The name of the Xanthos spreads terror among all seafaring men. You must make Agamemnon fear what is happening behind him and force the kings to quarrel as they lose ships and their supplies run out. The longer this goes on, the more each king will worry about what is going on at home, which leader is rising to take his place and assassinate his family.”

Helikaon drew a deep breath, but he nodded agreement. “Menados will not expect me to sail again so quickly.” He glanced at the sky, where there was a glimmer of light in the east. “We might get out again before dawn.”

Hektor told him, “The Trojan fleet has orders to go with you. It is under your command. Sink as many of Menados’ ships as you can. But they fear your fire hurlers and will probably run.”

“We are low on nephthar,” Helikaon said.

“We have brought you two wagons full.” Hektor smiled a little. “With great care.”

He stood up and said, “May Poseidon look kindly upon you both.”

“He always has,” Helikaon said.

Andromache looked from one to the other of them, anger rising in her breast. “You speak as if all decisions have been made. But I decide my own future! I am not going with you,” she said to Helikaon. “I will return to the city, as planned, and to my son.”

Hektor leaned down toward her and took her hand, pulling her to her feet.

“Escape while you can, Andromache,” he said. “I beg you! Go with the Xanthos. There is a good chance that all these men”—he gestured to the riverbank and the men hard at work unloading the tin—“will be dead by the morning. We have pushed our luck to the breaking point getting out of the city tonight. If we smuggle this tin into the city, to the forges where it is needed, it will mean Athene is truly smiling on us.” The shadows around his eyes deepened. “And her face has been turned away from Troy in recent times.”

She felt anger rising in her. “And where would I go, Hektor?”

“To Thera or to your father in Thebe. It is no longer under attack.”

She shook her head. “No, I cannot. Agamemnon wants me dead. We have more than enough evidence of that. I bring danger with me wherever I go. If Troy falls, Agamemnon will feel free to do anything he wants, even attack Thera and its sisterhood. If there is any safety for me, however ephemeral, it is in Troy. And Astyanax is there.”

Helikaon added, “And my son, Dex, is there. Why could you not get them out of the city, Hektor? You said women and children were being smuggled out.”

Hektor sighed. “Priam would not let the boys leave. They are together in the palace now. Father says that as heirs to Troy and Dardanos they will be safest in Troy. Or rather, they will be more unsafe anywhere else. This is your argument, my love.” He looked at Andromache, one eyebrow raised. “And it is a good one.”

“It is true,” she admitted. “Agamemnon will hunt them both down. He is right, Helikaon. Dex will stay with Astyanax and me. I will take care of him.”

The three stood, and as they walked slowly back to the riverbank, Helikaon told Hektor, “Menados has a new ship, a great bireme almost as big as the Xanthos.”

“I know of it,” Hektor said. “It is called the Alektruon. A cursed name. It has not the heart of the Xanthos. It is just a hollow copy.”

“And it was not built by the Madman from Miletos,” Helikaon replied grimly. “It will break apart when Poseidon swims.”

On the Xanthos, unloading was complete. Hektor turned to them both and said, “I fear we three will not meet again this side of the Dark Road. This is a story with no good endings.”

Andromache took his hand. “We will meet again, Hektor. I know it.”

He smiled. “Is this a prophecy, Andromache?”

“You know I am not given to prophecies, visions, or prescient dreams. I am not Kassandra. I just know in my bones that this is not the end.” She kissed his hand gently. “Until we meet again, my husband.”

She caught the expression on Helikaon’s face, and she felt as if her heart were being wrenched in two. She was standing with the two men she loved yet was to lose them both within moments. And she could not say a proper goodbye to either of them. Looking into Hektor’s shadowed eyes, she felt the familiar stab of guilt that she could never love him as he deserved. And under Helikaon’s intense blue gaze she hated herself for hurting him by choosing to stay with her son.

Her heart in pain, she turned her eyes toward the distant city hidden by the night. One thing was certain: There would be more grief for them all before the end.