Fall of Kings

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO TRAITORS AT THE GATE

On the west wall Khalkeus also stood watching, but as the Mykene ships started to burn, he turned and walked away, head bowed. He knew the Golden One would escape the inferno and make his way out to sea in the Xanthos. Khalkeus had no wish to see any more.

Truly it was called the Death Ship, he thought, the name given to it by the Kypriot carpenters who had built it but refused to sail on it, fearing it was a challenge to Poseidon, who would sink it for its arrogance.

But Khalkeus had designed the Xanthos to be a trading vessel, to hold more cargo and to be faster than its competitors, and, crucially, to be strong enough to brave the heavy seas of spring and autumn and prolong its sailing season well past the days when other ships returned to their safe harbors. And it had exceeded his wildest expectations, sailing the treacherous waters of winter all the way to the far west and back in the search for tin. Khalkeus had looked forward to its return so that he could discuss the ship’s travels with the Golden One, hear him praise Khalkeus’ skills as a shipwright, and talk about modifications he could make to the vessel.

Instead, as on that cursed day at the Bay of Blue Owls, he had watched men burn when the Death Ship sailed.

The Mykene were a callous and ruthless race, he told himself. They brought destruction down upon themselves. But the fire hurlers were his invention; he had built them for Helikaon to fight off pirates and reivers, and now his mind was clouded by sorrow for the men killed so cruelly in their hasty bid to copy the Xanthos’ fire weapon. The Madman from Miletos, they called him. Perhaps they were right, he thought. Only a madman would create such a weapon of death.

He elbowed through the excited crowd of Trojans who were pointing and cheering at the blazing ships, then climbed down the steps from the western wall and made his way northeast through the maze of streets. He looked around him as he walked, seeing the city with troubled eyes. When he first had arrived, Troy had been a remarkable sight, a city unlike any other in the world. The great palaces of the mighty were roofed with bronze and decorated with red and green marble, their walls carved with creatures of legend. Priam’s palace boasted a roof of pure gold, which shone in the sunlight and could be seen from far out at sea. Wide stone avenues were thronged with noble men and women garbed in rich brightly colored clothes, glinting with jewelry, eager to see and be seen. The whole world came to Troy to gasp at its beauty and profit from its wealth.

Now the world had come to Troy to bring it to its knees and plunder that wealth.

The streets around him were filled with shacks and shanties built by refugees from the lower town who hoped for safety behind the great walls. Their rough wood and hide shelters, hundreds of them, leaned low against the tall palaces of the rich and powerful. Traders and craftsmen lived in those hovels, some working—if they had the materials—but most living on the hope that one day the war would end and they could return to their trades and prosper again.

There was an atmosphere of fear and anger in the streets, and few ventured out after dark. Food was becoming scarce, and the stores of grain were guarded closely, the bakeries, too. Water was also a problem. There were two wells within the walls, but most of the city’s water had come from the Scamander, now behind enemy lines, and the Simoeis, from which cartloads of water barrels still were brought from time to time. The city wells also were guarded to ensure that fighting did not break out among the waiting crowds of thirsty people and protect the meager water supply from poisoning by agents of the enemy.

Khalkeus wove his way through the confusing pattern of alleys created by the shanties. It seemed to change from day to day. At one point the alley he was following came to a dead end, and he cursed in frustration. He thought he was alone in the smelly, shadowy alley, but then a voice said, “Give you a ride to remember, lord. Only one copper ring.” A skinny whore was sitting in the doorway of a shack, her eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue and disappointment, bright splashes of red paint on her cheeks. She cocked her head and smiled at him, and he saw that her teeth were gray and rotten.

He shook his head nervously and hurried back down the alley, finding his way at last to the square before Priam’s palace. The great doors were open, and the red-pillared portico in front of the palace was flanked, as always, by a line of Royal Eagles in bronze breastplates and high helms with cheek guards inlaid with silver and white plumes.

Khalkeus looked up at the gleaming gold roof, a symbol of Priam’s wealth and power. The bronze had been torn off the roofs of the other palaces at Hektor’s command to fashion into weapons. Only this remained, a shining beacon drawing Priam’s enemies, taunting them to come and take it.

He walked on. At the Dardanian Gate beneath the northeast bastion he was forced to stop and wait for a train of donkey carts to come in. Two of the carts carried water barrels. The others were loaded with families and their possessions, tearful children and their anxious mothers, their menfolk plodding alongside. One was piled high with wooden crates filled with chickens.

A burly gate guard strolled over to him. “You again, smith. You like to take your chances, don’t you? One of these days Agamemnon will attack this gate; then we have orders to close and seal it. It wouldn’t do if you were stuck outside.”

“It is not in Agamemnon’s best interests to seal the city, not yet,” Khalkeus replied, reluctant to get into a conversation with the man.

“He’s letting families out,” the soldier continued. “My wife and children left two days ago for the safety of Zeleia.”

“How many have gone out today, and how many have come in?”

The man frowned. “I’ve been here since dawn, and I’ve seen more than fifty people come in. Two families have left.”

“So more are coming into the city than going out,” Khalkeus snapped, irritated by the man’s lack of understanding. “Can’t you see, you idiot, that’s what Agamemnon wants—Troy packed with refugees, eating the stores of grain, drinking the precious water. They are of no use to the city. They do not bring weapons; most of them cannot fight. They are farmers and their families. They bring only fear”—he gestured to the women and children and sputtered—“and babies!”

The guard looked angry. “Then why are the enemy letting people out?” he demanded.

Khalkeus held his tongue with difficulty and moved toward the gate. In his own mind he knew the soldier’s family members were already dead, had died as soon as they had traveled out of sight of the walls. Agamemnon would not allow children to leave the city, knowing that Hektor’s son and the Dardanian heir were inside.

Outside the walls he glanced to the south, where the enemy was camped a mere two hundred paces away. Then he followed the stone road around the north of the plateau, hunching his shoulders against the wind. Eventually he reached the line of empty forges.

Troy’s forges had lit up this area since the birth of the city. The wind scythed in from the north, hitting the high hillside and making the furnaces roar in a way no man-made bellows could. But when the war had started, Priam had ordered all his forgemasters behind the walls, and those furnaces were abandoned. Except by Khalkeus.

Since he had been very young, the bronzesmith realized, he had thought in a way different from that of other people. His head constantly brimmed with ideas. He was impatient with those who could not understand the solution to simple problems that seemed obvious to him. He was curious about the world and spotted challenges everywhere. When he saw oarsmen rowing a ship, he wondered what could be done to make it go faster. He understood instinctively why one house would fall down in a winter gale while another nearby remained standing. Even as he had shunned the whore’s advances that day, part of his mind had been wondering what the red paint on her face was made from and why some people’s teeth rotted faster than others.

But his obsession for ten years or more had been his search for the perfect sword.

Everyone knew of the lumps of gray metal that fell from the skies. Most thought them a gift of Ares. They were prized, more valuable than gold. Priam had several in his treasury, and sometimes small objects, brooches, even arrowheads, were hammered out of the cold gray metal.

The Hittites had learned to make swords of that star metal, it was said, but they guarded the secret closely. Khalkeus never had seen such a weapon, but he believed the stories. He had gathered several slivers of the metal over the years and had studied them. He had found that they could not be scratched by bronze, only by some gemstones. He believed there had to be a way to cast the metal into a sword stronger than the best bronze, a sword that would bend, not break, remain sharp, and last a warrior a lifetime.

His greatest surprise in studying the shards was that they went red and rotted when left in water. The red crumbly remains made him think of the red rocks mined all over the country in the search for gold and the elusive tin, rocks considered valueless and thrown away by the miners. He employed workmen to bring cartloads of the red rocks to his forge, and the other smiths mocked him when he heated them over charcoal in his furnace. Brought to the heat at which copper could be smelted, the ore refused to become molten and flow, separating itself from the slag and unburned charcoal. What was left was merely a gray spongy mass that, when cooled, shattered at the blow of a hammer.

Frustrated, he pondered this for a time. Seeing that the metal could be weakened by water, he concluded that it must be strengthened by fire. He needed more heat. He had persuaded King Priam to fund bigger furnaces, taller than any seen before in Troy, so that the gray sponges could be superheated to release their pure metal. His neighboring smiths laughed at him at first, then stopped laughing as the first two furnaces burned down, taking nearby forges with them. Then the war came to Troy, and the other forgemasters followed the king’s orders and moved inside the city.

But not Khalkeus. Now, alone on the hillside at last, away from the prying eyes and jeering comments, he looked up at the great chimney he was building. Surrounded by a scaffold of wood, it was already twice the height of a man. Rubbing his palms together, Khalkeus set to work.

Cocooned in a soft pile of sweet-smelling bed linen and downy cushions, Andromache slept on long past dawn, deeply asleep in the unaccustomed comfort of a real bed. When the sound of muted sobbing woke her, the sun was high.

Luxuriously she stretched, then rolled over and sat up. “What is it, Axa? What’s wrong?”

Her maid, placing a large bowl of scented water on a table, turned a tear-stained face to her. “I’m sorry, lady. And you so tired. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I thought you’d be glad to see me back,” Andromache teased her, running her hands through her thick red hair, pushing it back.

Axa smiled wanly. “Of course I am, lady. But just as you get back safely, then my Mestares leaves.” Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she hung her head. “I’m sorry, Princess, but I am frightened for my babies. The enemy are letting women and children go. I wanted to travel to Phrygia. It is a long way, I know, but I have family there. My babies would be safe. But Mestares would not let me. He forbade me to leave the city. I could not complain, lady, because he was here with me. But now the Trojan Horse has left in the night. And he said nothing to me. Not a word.”

“They rode out at dawn?”

“No, my lady. They left in the middle of the night.”

Andromache nodded thoughtfully. “Hektor can trust no one. All the while refugees are entering the city, Agamemnon will be sending his spies in with them. Mestares could not tell you he was going. Perhaps he did not even know himself. Hektor told me they were leaving at dawn. You see, he could not even tell me the truth.”

Axa sniffed and rubbed the tears off her cheeks. “Everyone says we’re safe behind the great walls. You believe that, don’t you, my lady? You came back.”

Andromache could not lie to her. “I don’t know, Axa. I came back because my son is here. Where is he this morning?”

“The boys are playing in the gardens. They are firm friends now. It is nice to see them playing so happily together.”

But Andromache felt a stab of fear at her words. Their talk of spies had made her feel vulnerable. “In the gardens? Are they being watched?”

Axa nodded vehemently. “They are guarded at all times, my lady. Prince Hektor picked their bodyguards himself. They are safe.”

Andromache saw the maid’s plump face cloud over again as she thought of her own three children, and she said hastily, “I think the scarlet dress today.”

Surprised, Axa said, “My, your travels have changed you, lady. You don’t normally care what you wear. And you seldom wear that scarlet gown. You said it makes you look like”—she lowered her voice—“one of Aphrodite’s maidens.”

Andromache laughed. “I have spent the entire winter in just three dresses. I am sick and tired of them. Take them out and burn them. I might even do it myself. Now, Axa, you must tell me all the palace gossip I have missed. I hear the princess Kreusa has fled the city.”

A curtain rattled, and one of her handmaids, sloe-eyed Penthesileia, came in. “The king wishes to see you, lady.”

“Thank you, Penthesileia. Axa, our gossip will have to wait. Quickly, help me get ready.”

It was close to noon and the warm air held the promise of summer when Andromache arrived at Priam’s megaron, yet the atmosphere inside was chilly and gloomy. She felt goose bumps rise on her arms as she walked to where Priam sat on his carved and gilded throne, flanked by Polites and Polydorus, with his guard of six Eagles behind him.

Coming up close to the king, Andromache saw that he looked shrunken and frail. She remembered the vital powerful man she had met on the great tower. Then she looked into his eyes and shuddered inwardly. The king she once knew, though cruel and capricious, had a sword-sharp mind. Now all she could see in those eyes was cold emptiness. She remembered Kassandra saying of Agamemnon’s eyes, “They are empty. There is no soul behind them.” Do all kings come to this at last? she thought.

“Andromache,” he said, his voice familiar, though cracked and thin. “You have been away from us too long. Tell me of your travels.”

Standing in front of him like a dutiful child, Andromache started to tell him of their journey: Helikaon’s duel with Persion, her talks with Iphigenia, the winter journey to the Seven Hills, and their return, right up to her arrival with the donkey carts full of tin. She left out only the attack on Ithaka. She gave a detailed account, and it took a long time. She was chilled to the bone by the time she finished her tale. All the while she watched him, wondering how much he was taking in. His gaze drifted from time to time, then slowly turned to her again.

Finally she fell silent. There was a long pause, and then he said, “And Ithaka. You skipped that. Surely one of the most interesting events of your journey.”

“Ithaka, my king?”

He leaned forward, and she saw that the whites of his eyes were as yellow as egg yolks. “It is the talk of the Great Green that Odysseus stormed his own megaron to rescue his wife. Achilles was with him. And the Xanthos was seen there at the time. Aeneas helping his old friend—and our adversary. I know everything that happens on the Great Green, girl. Do not seek to fool me.”

Andromache remained silent. The king coughed painfully and went on, his voice harsh. “I declare Aeneas to be an enemy of Troy. He will be executed when he returns to the city. Do you hear me, Polites?”

“Yes, Father.” Polites caught Andromache’s eye and shook his head slightly. “You are tired now, Father. You must rest.”

Priam ignored him. “You are not wearing the gown I gave you,” he said to Andromache.

“My lord?” She looked down at the scarlet dress.

“The gold-embroidered gown with the dolphin shawl. You said you would wear it today.” The old man leaned forward again and stared at her, frowning. Then he reached out a clawlike hand and dragged her to him. He was still a powerful man, and Andromache felt his sour breath on her cheek, hot and feverish. His grip on her arm was like a vise.

“Who are you?” he rasped. “You are not my Hekabe. Are you one of the ghosts? I tell you again, you do not frighten me!”

She said calmly, “I am Andromache, wife to Hektor.”

“Where is Hekabe?” He released her, pushing her away, and looked around him. “She said she would wear the golden gown.”

Polydoros stepped forward and offered the old man a drink from a goblet of gold, and Polites moved alongside Andromache. “You can go now,” he said quietly. “I know his moods. He is living in his past, and he does not know you.”

“Hektor said the king could no longer be trusted. He did not explain further,” Andromache said as they walked from the megaron out into the fresh air.

Polites told her of the regiments’ retreat from the Scamander and the burning of the bridges, and she listened in horror.

“But if his Eagles still obey him,” she responded, “Helikaon will be killed when he returns to Troy.”

Polites smiled sadly. “Father no longer has any Eagles at his command.”

“But the Eagles in the megaron…” Her voice trailed off as the realization struck her. “I see. They are not Eagles.”

“No, they are all Hektor’s men, handpicked by him to guard the king. If you looked closely, one of them is Areoan, Hektor’s shield bearer and one of his most loyal friends. They do not do Priam’s bidding. Any order he gives they bring to me.”

“Then you are truly king in Troy, Polites.”

He nodded ruefully. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Then Hektor should not have left,” she said sharply. “I am sorry, Brother, but you are not a military man.”

“I told him that myself. Come, let us walk.”

They wandered into the gardens, where Andromache could see the two little boys playing, watched by their bodyguards. She longed to run to Astyanax and take him in her arms, but instead she paced slowly beside Polites as he talked.

“People say Priam had fifty sons, you know,” he told her. “But much that’s said about the king is nonsense. Many think my own sons were sired by him. It is something of a joke in the city. But it is not true. My wife, Suso, lived away from Troy for most of our marriage because she feared the king’s advances. She died in the winter. Did you know that?” Andromache shook her head, struck dumb with compassion for a woman she never had known. “It was a coughing fever,” Polites explained flatly, as if talking about the weather. “But our two boys are safe. I sent them far from the city over a year ago. No one knows where they are but me. They were the heirs to Troy before your Astyanax was born, but they will never know that. Even the good merchant and his wife who are raising them as their own don’t know who they are.”

Polites paused. “But I am straying from my point, Sister. You see, Priam had many sons, but he has been profligate with them. I know for certain he had five murdered, probably more. And now he has lost Dios and my good friend Antiphones and Paris, too. And Hektor, the best of us, is not here. So the only son he has left is poor Polites, who is, as you say, not a military man.”

Andromache started to speak, but he held his hand up. “Hektor believes the walls cannot be taken, and I think he is right. So there is nothing to do for those of us behind them but to guard and ration the food and water and ensure the Scaean Gate is not opened by treachery.”

“But if somehow they do break in and you fall, Polites, who will then order the defense of the city?”

“If I fall, Andromache, its generals will defend the city.”

At that moment there was shouting from the portico, and an Eagle came running through the open bronze gates and into the courtyard gardens. “The Mykene are attacking the walls, lord! They have hundreds of ladders.”

Polites’ expression darkened. “Where?” he demanded.

“The east and west walls, my lord.”

“Who commands the walls today?”

“Banokles’ Scamandrians have the west, Lucan the east.”

“Then I will go to the west wall. Soldier, go and fetch my armor.” Polites glanced at Andromache. “A prince must be seen in his armor,” he explained shyly.

He turned to go and almost collided with a redheaded man making his way toward the palace. Andromache recognized Khalkeus the bronzesmith. The old smith was covered with dust, and he looked exhausted, as if he had worked all night.

“I must see the king,” Khalkeus told him curtly.

“You cannot see the king now,” Polites answered.

“Then I wish to see you, Prince Polites,” Khalkeus said, folding his arms and planting himself in the prince’s path. “It is very important. I must have more resources. My work is vital.”

“Another time, Khalkeus. The walls are under attack.”

Khalkeus raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Under attack? With ladders?” Polites nodded and pushed past him. “Interesting!” the smith said. “I will come with you.”

Andromache watched them hurry off: Polites with his long white robes flapping around skinny legs, stocky Khalkeus trotting along behind him. Her heart full of dread, she turned and walked back to the two boys playing in the sunlit gardens.

Khalkeus followed in the footsteps of the king’s son as he made his way through the city, flanked by a troop of Eagles. He had forgotten completely his concerns about the forge, his interest piqued by this new turn of events. He long since had dismissed the possibility of the enemy attacking with ladders. The great walls were too high, and the slant of the lowest section meant that the ladders would have to be unusually long, which would make them heavy to maneuver and extremely unstable.

The scene on the west wall was one of calm control. The battlements were defended strongly by the Scamandrian regiment. At only one point had the enemy managed to climb to the top. Khalkeus watched the obnoxious Mykene renegade Banokles and his men kill them, strip their armor, then throw the bodies back over the wall.

He peered cautiously over the wall at the scene below. More than fifty ladders had been thrown up against the stones. They were all just short of the battlements, and once the enemy troops had started climbing them, their weight made the tops of the ladders hard to dislodge. Nevertheless, the Trojan soldiers were doing an efficient job, leaning over, hooking the ends of ladder poles to the top rungs, and then pushing them away and down, sending enemy warriors crashing back among their fellows, breaking arms, legs, and heads.

“Slide the ladders!” Polites yelled, seeing what was happening. “Wait until they have plenty of men on them, then slide them sideways. Then they’ll take others down with them.”

Arrows flew over the battlements, targeting the soldiers who were trying to dislodge the ladders, and Polites hurriedly donned his breastplate and helm when they were brought to him. Khalkeus looked around him, wrenched a helmet from a dead Trojan soldier, and hastily put it on. It smelled of blood and sweat.

A troop of Phrygian archers came running up the stone steps, prepared to target the bowmen on the ground. But tall Kalliades, the general’s aide, stopped them with a shout. “Don’t shoot! They are too far away for accuracy. Let them keep shooting at us. We may need their arrows later.”

Kalliades glanced at Polites, who nodded his agreement. “Yes, we need their arrows. And we need other missiles. They are an open target, all those enemy soldiers milling down below us.”

Banokles strolled up to them, wiping blood off one of his swords on a piece of cloth. “That was fun,” he commented.

He leaned over the battlements, then jumped back as an arrow glanced off his helm. “Boiling oil, that’s what we need,” he said, echoing Polites’ words. “Or water. That’ll give them something to think about.”

“There is little oil and no spare water in the city,” Polites answered. “We cannot use the water we might need to drink come the end of summer.” The men looked at each other, all no doubt thinking the same thing: Will we still be here come summer’s end?

Khalkeus stepped forward. “Sand,” he said. The three men looked at him. “Sand is what we need. Ordinary sand from the beach. Plenty of it. Is there any inside the city?”

Polites frowned. “Sand is used in the royal gardens. There are piles of it there. It is mixed with soil for plants which need drainage.” He saw Kalliades’ and Banokles’ expressions of surprise and smiled slightly. “As has been said already today, I am not a military man. But I do know about plants.”

He turned to Khalkeus. “You can have all you want, smith, but what do you want it for?”

At that moment a powerful Mykene warrior levered himself over the wall beside them. As he cleared the battlements, Kalliades leaped toward him and skewered his heart with a sword thrust. The man slumped across the wall, his sword clattering to the stone floor. Kalliades and Banokles grabbed an arm each and threw him back over. Khalkeus peered down and saw the warrior’s leg catch on the ladder he had climbed and bring it down, along with four men climbing behind him.

“They’re just wasting their men,” Banokles snorted. “We can go on doing this all day. It makes no sense.”

“You’re right,” Polites replied, his face creased with worry. “It makes no sense. Agamemnon is an intelligent man.” He looked to Kalliades, his face suddenly clearing. “It is a diversion!”

Kalliades ran for the steps. “If they attack the east and west walls, they will expect us to pull our troops away from the south!”

“The Scaean Gate!” Polites shouted, following him. To Banokles he yelled, “Bring some men!”

Instead of pursuing them down the stone steps, Khalkeus trotted hurriedly along the top of the western wall, then along the south wall as far as the Great Tower of Ilion. Below him, behind the Scaean Gate, there was a furious battle going on. The guards, defending the gate desperately against a group of dark-garbed warriors, were being forced back. As he watched, the last of the guards was brought down and the attackers sprang for the great oak locking bar. It took six men to lift the bar, Khalkeus knew, but there were eight men, and they had just laid their hands on it when Kalliades and Banokles arrived at a run.

Banokles charged into them with a roar, half beheading one and slashing a second across the face. The locking bar had cleared its support at one end. There was a tremendous crash from outside, and the gate shifted inward slightly under the blow. Kalliades leaped onto the end of the bar and threw his weight on it, helped by soldiers who had arrived behind him. The huge oak bar locked back into place just as a second blow hit it from the outside.

On the wall above them, Khalkeus hurried to the other side and looked down. Outside the gate the massive trunk of an oak tree was being wielded as a battering ram by fifty or more men. Behind them warriors waited, armed and armored. The battering ram powered forward once again, but the great gate barely shuddered. It was firmly locked.

As the bronzesmith watched, one of the waiting warriors turned his gaze up toward him, and Khalkeus saw it was the king of Ithaka. Their eyes locked, and Khalkeus slowly shook his head. Odysseus sheathed his sword, then turned and walked away from the gate.