Fall of Kings

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN THE BRAVEST OF THE TROJANS

As dawn cast its pink rays over the city, the massive Scaean Gate swung open a crack and a small girl toddled out. She was scarcely more than a baby, with big blue eyes and golden curls. When she saw the armed men lined up outside, she stopped in surprise, then sat down suddenly. Sitting in the dust she started to wail.

A young woman followed her through the gates, crying, “Susa, I told you to wait for me!” She saw the enemy soldiers, and her face went ashen, but she ran forward and picked up the child. She carried a shapeless bag of belongings under one arm, and she tucked the crying girl under the other. Then she looked around.

Odysseus stepped forward. “You know where you are going, woman?”

She nodded, bobbing her head nervously.

“Then go!” he roared, pointing down the road that led through the lower town and across the Scamander plain to the safety of the sea.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, passing him, head down. “Thank you, lord.”

Next through the gates was a skinny old crone with two children, a boy and a girl, held tightly by their hands. She glared when she saw the soldiers and hurried past the watching ranks as quickly as possible.

As more women came out from the gate, Odysseus signaled to his Ithakan riders to accompany the exodus toward the Bay of Herakles. One trotted his horse up to the first woman and, leaning from his mount, picked up the crying toddler by one arm and lifted her up in front of him. The girl stopped wailing instantly, startled into silence.

Throughout the morning there was a continuous stream of refugees out of the city until, Odysseus guessed, the line of them stretched all the way from the Scaean Gate to the bay. There were a few donkey carts and a couple of starved-looking horses, but most of the women walked. There were wives with small children and some young women traveling in groups, but many of the refugees were sturdy older women, soldiers’ wives and camp followers who were used to walking long distances behind moving armies. They did not pale when they passed the enemy warriors; they marched with their heads high.

Odysseus glanced at Agamemnon from time to time. Tall and stooped in his black cloak, the Mykene king was standing watching the refugees. Odysseus was reminded of a hungry vulture deprived of its prey. Alongside him was a thin, swarthy man called Dolon. Each time a woman or child with red hair came out of the gates, Agamemnon would look at Dolon, who would shake his head. Odysseus knew the man once had played a role in the Trojan royal household and guessed he would be well rewarded for this day’s work.

Long before noon the trickle of refugees from the gate stopped. There was an expectant silence among the waiting soldiers, then finally Hektor himself walked out. He was in full armor of bronze, his black-and-white crested helm held under one arm and four swords in the other hand. He looked twice the size of any of the men around him, and he gazed at them without expression. The Scaean Gate closed behind him, and they all heard the locking bar being rammed firmly into place.

Odysseus walked up to the prince, who asked him, “Will they be safe, sea uncle?”

The king nodded. “You have my word. The first ones to leave are already on Kypriot ships. The masters have been well paid to take them to Lesbos. And many will have enough rings for passage far away from here.”

Hektor’s face was grave, and Odysseus could see the tension around his eyes.

“Then let’s get on with it,” he said.

Followed by hundreds of warriors, the two walked around the walls to the west of the city. There the wall was lowest, and the people of Troy could watch the combat from the battlements. A wide area of ground had been leveled off during the night, and a huge circular trench dug, wider than a man could leap across. It was filled with glowing coals, and the heat rising from them made the air shimmer. The arena of combat inside the trench was more than fifty paces wide, and Odysseus knew the ground had been scrutinized closely for loose pebbles that could make a fighter lose his footing. Thousands of soldiers were gathering around the circle, six to eight deep, jostling for a vantage point. The ones at the back pushed forward; those at the front tried to stay back from the heat of the coals.

Achilles was waiting alongside the priest of Ares. He was garbed in his black armor and helm, and if he noticed the heat, he did not show it. There were four swords at his feet, as agreed. Hektor checked the straps on his breastplate, then put on his helm. He placed his swords on the ground by the priest. Odysseus noticed that the hilts of Hektor’s swords were incised with the horse insignia of the house of Priam.

The thin dark-clad priest raised his hands and cried out in a reedy voice, “O Ares, lord of war, man killer, bringer of glory, hear our words. Look on these two great warriors. Each has served you well, O hater of mankind. Today, if you will it, one will stalk the sunlit Fields of Elysium. The name of the other will echo down the halls of history, and all men will honor him for eternity.”

Two scrawny goats were dragged up, and the priest cut their throats with a curved knife as they cried out in fear. Their blood splashed on the ground, drying instantly on the hot earth.

A huge plank of wood—a door, Odysseus guessed—doused in water was thrown over the trench as a bridge. The two champions each picked up a blade, then walked across the bridge, steam from the coals rising around them. The bridge was withdrawn. Odysseus looked up at the western wall. It was packed with silent watchers. There were thousands of spectators at this death match, but they were so quiet, all he could hear was the two men’s footsteps as they walked to the center of the arena.

They touched swords in salute. Then they circled. Achilles attacked first with lightning speed, and Hektor blocked and parried, sending back a blistering riposte that made Achilles step back. They circled again, watching each other’s eyes.

“Will you wager with me, Odysseus?” asked his kinsman Nestor, king of Pylos, who was standing beside him. “Our great Achilles against your friend Hektor?”

“I am proud to call Hektor my friend, but I will not wager on him,” Odysseus replied. “By Hera’s tits, even the gods will not gamble on this battle.”

Hektor hacked and thrust; Achilles parried and countered. Suddenly Achilles launched a ferocious attack, his blade moving like quicksilver. Hektor blocked it, then spun on his heel and hit Achilles in the face with the back of his fist. Achilles stumbled, righted himself, and swiftly brought up his blade to parry a death thrust to the neck. His riposte was so fast that Hektor threw himself to the ground, rolled, and was up again in an instant. They circled again.

Odysseus watched spellbound as the duel continued. Both fighters were endowed with natural balance and speed. Both had honed their skills in a thousand battles. Achilles was the younger man, yet he had spent all his short life seeking fights. Hektor battled and killed only when he had to. Both men fought coolly and with patience. Each knew that the slightest misjudgment could end his life. Each probed for weaknesses in the other; each tried to read the other’s moves.

The pace quickened, and the swords clashed in a whirl of glittering bronze. Attacking with controlled fury, Achilles forced Hektor back toward the fiery trench. They had to move carefully there, for the edges of the trench were crumbling in the heat. Hektor’s foot slipped. The crowd on the wall gasped. Achilles lunged. Hektor parried, regained his footing, and sent a flashing riposte that slid off Achilles’ breastplate. Both men stepped back, as if by consent, toward the center of the circle.

Odysseus knew that most duels began with heat and fury, then settled down to a game of endurance and concentration. No two duelists were exactly matched; all knew this. And there would always come a point when the seed of doubt entered the mind of one fighter: Is he better than I am? In this duel both men wanted to win. But was the difference between them that Achilles feared losing? Hektor had no such fear. Indeed, Odysseus wondered if it was Hektor’s weakness that at his core he did not care if he lived or died.

Achilles attacked again. Hektor ducked beneath a murderous cut, his blade flashing out and slicing Achilles’ cheek. Achilles stepped back a pace, wiping blood from his face, and Hektor allowed himself a heartbeat’s pause.

Then Hektor attacked. Achilles blocked the sword, rolled his wrist, and lanced his blade into the meat of Hektor’s shoulder. Hektor swayed back, preventing the point from thrusting deeply, but his sword fell from his numbed hand. The crowd gasped, and several people on the wall cried out. Achilles moved back two paces and gestured to the Trojan warrior to pick up the weapon.

As Hektor’s hand touched his sword, Achilles leaped at him, blade flashing for his head. Hektor blocked the blow with incredible speed but was forced back by the ferocious double-handed assault. Time and again Achilles was within a hairbreadth of delivering the death blow, but each attack was countered with amazing skill.

The long afternoon wore on, but the crowd was totally absorbed, totally silent, motionless in the monstrous heat.

A lightning thrust, partly parried, had opened up another cut on Achilles’ cheek. Hektor was suffering from cuts and gashes on both arms. Each had blunted or broken two blades, which were replaced instantly by the black-robed priest who tossed them with practiced accuracy into the fighters’ hands.

Odysseus could see that both men’s sword arms were tiring. They circled more warily, conserving strength. Hektor leaped forward. Their blades clashed together, and a high sweet note rose unexpectedly from the dull clash of bronze.

Achilles’ sword thrust past the Trojan’s defenses, hammering into the bronze strap holding his breastplate. It sprang off harmlessly, but the power of the blow sent Hektor staggering. Unbalanced, he swung at Achilles’ legs. His sword rang off a metal greave, but Hektor stumbled. Achilles hit him across the head with the pommel of his sword. Hektor ducked and rolled, more slowly now, then was up to counter a renewed attack.

Hektor stumbled again, his fatigue obvious. Watching him, Odysseus smiled to himself. It was a ploy he had used himself, available only to the older man in a contest. Achilles leaped forward, certain of the death blow. Hektor swayed away from the thrust. The sword passed his side, just under the lip of his breastplate. Achilles was wrong-footed, expecting a solid target. Hektor smashed the hilt of his sword into the back of his head, and Achilles went down. He rolled to his back just in time to block a massive sword blow to his face. The blades clanged together with a sound that echoed off the walls of Troy like the end of the world.

And Hektor’s blade snapped.

Achilles was rolling to his feet as the priest of Ares threw Hektor a third sword. The new blade flashed forward, but Achilles blocked it with ease and sent a counter that tore through the leather kilt, narrowly missing Hektor’s inner thigh. Hektor returned the attack with a lightning riposte, his sword ripping into Achilles’ helm. Achilles fell back and shook his head as if to clear it.

Hektor attacked. Achilles parried, and Hektor struck out with his left fist. Achilles swayed away from the blow and sent an uppercut to Hektor’s jaw. Hektor rolled with the punch and spun away as Achilles’ sword sang through empty air.

Achilles stepped back and took the moment to lift clear his damaged helm. He walked over to the edge of the circle and threw it far out over the heads of the watchers. Hektor dropped his sword, wrenched off his own helm, and tossed it into the crowd. Bare-headed, he picked up his sword again. Then, with a roar, he ran across the circle.

Achilles raced in, holding his blade double-handed. Hektor ducked swiftly, and the sword hissed over his head. Off balance, Achilles stumbled to the earth. He rolled twice, then smoothly rose to his feet. Then in a frenzied attack he landed blow after blow on Hektor’s bronze breastplate. A great crack appeared down the center of the golden horse. The Trojan ripped at the remaining bronze strap and threw the breastplate to the ground. Achilles paused and then did the same thing with his black cuirass.

The crowd fell silent as the two men fought on bare-chested, sweat pouring off them. Odysseus watched, caught between admiration and horror. He had seen many fights in his life, most of them a dull exchange of huge blows without skill or forethought. This was a titanic struggle of strength and skill such as no man watching ever had seen before or would see again.

Neither champion spoke a word as far as Odysseus could hear. Taunts and insults were for lesser men. Each warrior was holding his concentration in a viselike grip, planning ahead, trying to predict the other’s moves.

Achilles’ sword sliced across Hektor’s chest, sending a spray of blood flying through the air. Hektor groaned, and the sound was echoed by those on top of the wall and many of the watchers outside the circle. Achilles leaped in for the kill. Hektor swayed to the right, and his blade flashed out. Achilles threw himself back, but not before Hektor’s sword had opened a wound in his side.

Blood was streaming from both men now, and Hektor was tiring. Odysseus could see it. Achilles could see it, too. He tried a feint, followed by a lunge to the heart. Hektor parried it and sent a return cut that pierced Achilles beneath the collarbone, slicing open the skin.

Suddenly Achilles staggered.

He fell to one knee, shaking his head. Hektor rushed in, and Achilles rolled and tried to stand. Hektor paused, sword ready for the killing blow. With a massive effort Achilles got to his knees, then fell again. Hektor stepped back two paces, frowning. Then Achilles sprang to the attack like a man demented. Abandoning any attempt at defense, he launched a savage assault that backed Hektor across the arena.

Hektor defended grimly, his back ever closer to the perilous trench. Then, suddenly, Achilles fell again, his legs collapsing under him.

There were sounds of jeering from the top of the wall. At an order from Agamemnon, the makeshift bridge was thrown across the trench, and the priest of Ares hurried across to the two exhausted fighters. He took Hektor’s sword from his unresisting hand and sniffed at the blade. Then he raised the weapon aloft.

“Poison!” he shouted. “This blade has been smeared with poison! Achilles has been betrayed by the Trojan!”

“Treachery!” Agamemnon cried, and the cry was taken up angrily by the Myrmidons and the soldiers of Mykene. “Treachery!”

“Lies!” boomed Hektor’s voice, and the word was echoed all along the walls.

“Kill the treacherous dog!” Agamemnon yelled, and before Hektor could arm himself, three Followers raced across the bridge to attack him. Hektor ducked under the first sword cut, then smashed the Follower in the face with his huge fist. As the Mykene went down, Hektor snatched his sword and lanced it into the neck of the next attacker. The third Follower died from a sword thrust through the eye socket.

Achilles’ Myrmidons were trapped on the far side of the trench, with no way across, surrounded by warriors packed eight deep. Enraged by the betrayal of their king, all they could do, like those on the walls, was watch helplessly. The soldiers around the circle, their blood already high, were shouting and jostling, and fistfights were breaking out at the back.

Odysseus desperately worked his way through the crowd, cursing, pushing, elbowing a path to where the priest of Ares had retreated with Hektor’s sword.

With three Followers dead, Agamemnon sent in the rest of his elite guard. Gravely wounded, Hektor saw the nine coming toward him, picked up a second sword, and attacked. But even he could not stand against so many. He slashed one across the throat. Another went down with a sword in his belly. Hektor snatched up another blade, but the warriors surrounded him, and he was getting weaker by the moment.

Then, amazingly, Achilles stirred and moved. He struggled to his knees, then stood. His face was gray with pain and the effects of the poison. The crowd instantly went silent, and the skirmishes on the edge of the crowd ceased.

Achilles swayed on his feet. “Not… Hektor,” he gasped.

Then he slowly raised his sword and slammed it into the throat of one of the Followers. Agamemnon’s remaining men sprang to the attack, and Hektor and Achilles stood back to back to take them all on.

The thousands of watchers were awestruck as the two blood-covered warriors, both beyond hope of life, battled against seven of Agamemnon’s elite. Hektor was bleeding from a score of cuts, and one arm was so badly injured that it no longer was functioning. It was impossible that Achilles was still standing, let alone fighting. The end was inevitable. Yet it seemed neither champion would allow himself to fall while there were still enemies to fight.

Odysseus, panting and cursing, finally reached the priest, who watched the battle, his eyes alight with pleasure. Odysseus grabbed him by the throat and, with a roar, lifted him from his feet. The priest grappled panic-stricken in the king’s powerful grip, his face turning red. Odysseus delved in the pouch at the man’s side and brought forth a small gold vial. He dropped the priest.

“Enough!” he bellowed, his voice like thunder above the noise of battle.

The fighting in the circle paused, and the three Followers who were still alive stepped back uncertainly. Odysseus prized open the phial, which was half-filled with milky liquid. He sniffed it. “Here is your treachery!” he shouted, holding it up. “And here is your poisoner!” He pushed the priest forward.

Agamemnon strode up and snatched the poison phial. “What is this?” he asked, his voice shaking with genuine anger.

“It is called atropa,” Odysseus replied, raising his voice so that everyone could hear. “It is used by the Scythians of the Somber Sea to dip their arrows in. It causes dizziness, raving, paralysis, and death. It is an evil poison, a coward’s weapon.”

“You dog!” Agamemnon grabbed the poisoned sword and plunged it into the priest’s belly. The force of the blow knocked the man down onto the hot coals. He started to shriek, his robes bursting into flames around him. Within moments his desperate thrashing ceased, and his blackening body was still.

In the arena Hektor fell to his knees with a groan that echoed off the walls of Troy, blood streaming from a score of wounds. Achilles, still standing only by a massive feat of will, raised his sword and, with a last cry, plunged it into the chest of a Follower. Then he fell dead to the ground. The remaining two Followers looked to Agamemnon, uncertain what to do.

With a final effort Hektor picked up Achilles’ sword with trembling fingers and placed it on the warrior’s breast, then closed the dead hands over the hilt. He rested on his heels and bowed his head. Odysseus heard his final sigh. Then there was silence.

Hektor was dead.

His heart breaking, Odysseus sank to one knee. Across the circle he saw Thibo, Achilles’ shield bearer, do the same thing, followed by all the Myrmidons. Then, one by one, every man around the battleground knelt in tribute to the two great warriors.

Only Agamemnon stood alone. He turned angrily on his heel and stalked away.

Odysseus bowed his head, sick at heart for the part he had played in the deaths of the two great warriors. Then in the quiet he heard a hissing sound. In the trench before him the dying coals were giving off small spurts of steam. Odysseus raised his eyes to the sky. Unnoticed by anyone as the titanic battle had gone on, thunderclouds had gathered overhead. It became darker as he watched. Then there was a deafening crack of thunder, and a bolt of lightning flashed through the sky above Troy’s walls. The skies opened, and the rain poured down.

He had no idea how long he knelt there in the rain and mud. Eventually Odysseus became aware that people were moving about. He opened his eyes wearily. The Myrmidons were gathered around Achilles, preparing to take him away.

Odysseus levered himself to his feet and walked across to the arena. Red-bearded Thibo was standing by Hektor’s body.

“You will return Hektor to his city?” Odysseus asked.

“I will, King,” the warrior said. “Had he lived, great Achilles would have treated his fallen foe with honor. Then I will take my Myrmidons, and we will sail home. Our king will go to the pyre, but not in this accursed place.”

Odysseus nodded. He suddenly realized that the men around him had fallen silent, and the only sound was the rain drumming on metal armor. He looked up and saw Andromache. She was walking toward them alone through the rain, dressed in a robe of scarlet flame, her face stern, her head high.

She came up to him. She was ashen-faced and her hair was plastered to her head and shoulders, yet he thought her then the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Helikaon was right, he thought. Truly you are a goddess.

She looked down on Hektor’s body, and when she looked up at him again, her eyes were brimming with tears. “Well, Tale Spinner, are you happy with this day’s work?”

“Two of my friends are dead. What would you have me say, lass?”

“That this will all end now, and you will return to your ships and go home.”

“I will return to my ships and go home.”

She arched her eyebrows, unbelieving. “Truly?”

He told her, “Ithaka is leaving this place. I do not believe the priest chose to poison the blade which killed Achilles.” He glanced inquiringly at Thibo, who nodded his head.

“I suspect Agamemnon’s hand behind this,” Thibo agreed. “It was an evil act.”

Odysseus told Andromache, “This is Thibo of the Myrmidons. He will see that Hektor’s body is returned to the city with honor. Then he will take Achilles’ army and go home to Thessaly. And I will be back with Penelope and my new son come the Feast of Demeter.”

He saw hope in Andromache’s gray eyes and was quick to quash it.

“We once made a pact, you and I, to tell each other only the truth,” he said. She nodded, remembering the Bay of Blue Owls where they first had met. “Agamemnon will not return home with his armies and fleets. Troy will fall, Andromache. The rain will not save you. In truth, it means only that everyone in the city will be slaughtered before they die of thirst.”

She caught her breath at his harsh words.

“Troy cannot be saved.” He glanced at the listening soldiers and looked into her eyes. “But if you wish to save your son,” he told her, “look to the north.”

He turned away and left her standing grief-stricken in the rain.

Agamemnon was furious. He strode down the road to his palace, flanked by his Mykene guard and the last two Followers. Can no one follow a simple plan? he thought. The priest was supposed to smear poison on the blade unnoticed as everyone watched the battle, then drop the phial into the hot coals. Instead, greed had made him keep it, and greed had been his undoing. And as for that interfering oaf Odysseus, it was well past time to do something about him. His nuisance value now outweighed his usefulness.

Agamemnon swept into the megaron, where the kings already were gathering, quaffing goblets of wine cheerfully. When they saw him, their demeanor changed to watchfulness. He knew they found him hard to predict, and that pleased him.

He looked around, then sighed and shook his head. “Our great Achilles is dead,” he said sorrowfully. “Our champion felled by treachery.”

Kygones of Lykia was watching him narrowly. “Yes, a tragedy for us all,” he commented drily.

“I heard the Myrmidons say they will leave now and take his body home,” Menelaus slurred. He had been swigging unwatered wine for much of the day.

“We do not need the Myrmidons. All the more plunder for the rest of us,” Idomeneos said with relish.

The doors opened, and Odysseus came in, followed by old Nestor. The Ithakan king stomped up to Agamemnon, his face red with anger.

“Convince me, King,” Odysseus stormed, “that you did not command the poxy priest to poison Hektor’s sword!”

Agamemnon replied smoothly, “This is madness, Odysseus. Why would I poison our own champion?”

“Because, by the great god Zeus, one death was never enough for you. You wanted them both dead! And if Achilles’ blade was poisoned and he lived to find out, then he would have killed you himself, as I am minded to do myself for today’s foul deeds.”

Agamemnon leaped back and drew his sword, and his Followers moved to his side, blades at the ready. The Battle King was well prepared to fight. To see the meddlesome Odysseus lying on the floor with his lifeblood pumping out was something he long had hoped for. Around them the other kings had their hands to their sword hilts, yet, Agamemnon realized with shock, at least two of them, old Nestor and Menestheos of Athens, were glaring at him.

He took a deep breath, sheathed his sword, and said placatingly, “You are misled by your grief, Odysseus. This is a day of tragedy for all of us. Our champion Achilles is walking the Dark Road. We will never see his like again.” The words of the dying priest in the Cave of Wings came back to him. “The Age of Heroes is passing,” he added.

“By all the bastard gods, I am sick of it all,” Odysseus told him. “I will take my army and return to the bay tonight. At dawn we sail for Ithaka.”

Agamemnon felt a flood of relief and pleasure. The fat fool is leaving at last, he thought. The gods must truly love the Mykene.

Instead he said coldly, “So your pledge to me is worthless, Ithaka.”

“It was not the pledge that was worthless but the recipient,” Odysseus replied scornfully.

Nestor stepped in before Agamemnon could react. “My army will leave Troy, too. I am an old man, and I wish to see no more killing, no more death,” he said. “I will start for Pylos come daybreak.”

Agamemnon turned on him. “Your betrayal will not be forgotten, old man,” he spit. “You remain king only on my suffrance. When the troops of Mykene return home in triumph, be prepared to defend your flax fields and sandy beaches.”

Nestor flushed and countered angrily, “Do not seek to threaten me, Agamemnon. My sons are dead because of the dread Helikaon, but I have strong grandsons aplenty. If your troops march on our borders, they will be waiting for you there with sharp swords.

“If you ever return to the Lion’s Hall,” he added. “There are a myriad of leaves on the tree and a myriad of ways to die,” he quoted.

“You pious old fool,” Idomeneos snapped. “Even the gods are tired of your pompous advice and your tedious tales about when you were a young warrior. We will be better off without you.”

There was violence in the air. Odysseus glanced at his old friend Meriones. He was the only man in the megaron who had not drawn his sword. The Ithakan king guessed that his friend felt the way he did, but Meriones’ loyalty to Idomeneos was legendary.

Then Agamemnon sheathed his blade and sat down on a carved chair. He sipped a little water and smoothly changed the subject.

“The Trojans will be celebrating tonight,” he commented, as if the angry exchanges had not happened. “They will have water enough now to last into the autumn. We cannot wait while they die of thirst, so it is time to implement Odysseus’ plan to take the city.” He gestured to the Ugly King. “Remain with us, Ithaka, and by tomorrow night our soldiers could be inside the walls of Troy. You have stayed the course this far. Do not go now, on the eve of our triumph.” The words were bitter in his mouth, but the tension in the room eased and men sheathed their swords, picking up their wine cups again.

“We will sail at dawn,” Odysseus said tiredly.

“Good riddance. More plunder for the rest of us,” Idomeneos repeated.

Odysseus turned on him. “That reminds me, Sharptooth. You still owe me your breastplate, won by the warrior Banokles in a fistfight. I will collect it from you before I leave.”

Idomeneos scowled. Smiling, Odysseus walked from the company of the kings for the last time.