Fall of Kings

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO THE TROJAN WOMEN

Andromache laid her bundle of arrows on the balcony wall. She dragged her unruly hair back with a leather strip, then dried her damp palms on her tunic. She looked along the palace balcony at the other women. Some were watching her, nervously following her example; others stared transfixed at the ferocious battle taking place across the palace courtyard. It could not last much longer, they all knew. Their gallant warriors defending the ramparts had beaten back wave after wave of enemy attacks. Now, in the sultry afternoon, Andromache knew by the chill in her bones that it was nearly the end.

She watched stretcher bearers, most of them old men, struggle back to the palace with their burdens. Why? she wondered. Our wounded soldiers are just being saved for a later death, when the enemy breaks into the palace. We cannot hold the palace wall. It is not high enough, and we do not have enough men. We cannot hold the palace. She closed her eyes. Despair threatened to overwhelm her.

“Lady, can you help me?” Her young handmaid Anio was struggling with the leather breastplate she had been given. Though intended for a small man, it was too wide, the straps falling off her thin shoulders.

Patiently Andromache unthreaded the straps and then tied them closer together. “There,” she decided, “that’s better. You look like a tortoise who’s been given too big a shell.”

Anio smiled, and one girl laughed; Andromache felt her tension ease. There were ten Women of the Horse left, women and girls as young as fifteen who had not fled the city. Some had stayed because they had no family and nowhere to go, others because their families had remained, convinced that the great walls would never fall. As Kalliades had ordered, she had brought them to the high palace balcony overlooking the courtyard. Only Penthesileia had ignored those orders and gone to the ramparts to fight with the Thrakian bowmen.

Andromache frowned, angry at herself for giving in to despair, however fleetingly. You are the daughter of a king, she told herself. You do not whine or complain about your lot. Little Anio can find it in herself to smile despite the odds. You should feel privileged to stand beside her.

She watched the men on the wall, and pride surged in her breast. They are Trojan warriors, she thought. We are Trojan warriors. We will fight here, and we may die, but our tale will be told and the name of Troy will not be forgotten.

A familiar voice whispered in her ear: “Yes, Andromache, yes! Be strong! Look to the north, and help will come. We will meet again before the end, Sister.”

Kassandra! The girl’s voice was so clear, so present, that Andromache looked around. Inside her head she called her sister’s name, but there was no reply. Look to the north, Kassandra had said. Odysseus had told her the same thing.

At that moment, with awful suddenness, the enemy broke through on the wall. Eight Mykene warriors fought their way clear, racing down the rampart steps and across the paved courtyard toward the palace.

“Be ready!” she yelled to her archers, snatching her bow and notching an arrow to the string. The other women did the same thing. “Wait!” she warned. She watched coolly as the warriors approached.

Then she shouted, “Now!” and a volley of arrows tore into the running men. The women had time to loose two or three shafts each, and five of the attackers were hit. Two fell, and three stumbled on. When the men reached the closed megaron doors, there was nowhere to go, and they tried to scale the sheer stone walls. Only one managed to reach the balcony. As his hand gripped the top of the wall, Andromache pulled out her bronze dagger. She waited until his face appeared and then plunged the blade into the man’s eye. He fell without a sound.

She looked again to the struggle on the ramparts. The line of defenders had fractured in several places, and more Mykene were breaking through. The Trojans started to fall back in an organized retreat, pace by pace, trying to hold the line while being relentlessly forced toward the palace.

“Wait!” she ordered the women, seeing some of them raise their bows again. “Lower your bows. Now! Remember our orders.”

Beneath them they heard the groan and rumble of the megaron doors opening.

With a loud clatter of hooves on stone, the last horsemen in the city rode out from the palace. In the center of the battle line, defenders broke swiftly to the left and right. The riders galloped straight for the exposed center. With lance and spear they slammed into the enemy. Every horse left in the city was there. Andromache saw the black stallion Hero that had carried Hektor on his final ride. He was rearing, kicking out with flailing hooves at the enemy soldiers. Then all she could see was a melee of warriors and horses, all she could hear the shouts of men and the neighing of their mounts, the clash of metal and the rending of flesh.

It was a gallant last strike, but it was not enough. The gates in the palace wall had been opened, and hundreds more enemy warriors were joining the rear of the horde. The Trojans still were retreating, battling bravely but losing ground all the time.

“Be ready,” Andromache ordered the Women of the Horse. “Don’t shoot wildly. Take time to aim. We cannot risk shooting our own men. Make each arrow count. Always aim high. If you miss one man’s face, you might hit the man behind him.” This was the instruction she had drummed into her archers over and over in recent days until she found herself muttering it in her sleep.

Enemy warriors had fought their way within bowshot now, but still she waited. Then she saw a bearded bloodstained soldier in a Mykene helm look up at her and grin. “Now!” she shouted. Sighting high on his face, she loosed her arrow. The shaft plunged into the man’s cheek. She had a new arrow to the string in a heartbeat. She shot it at a soldier with his sword raised. It bit deep into his biceps, and she saw the sword fall from his hand.

For a moment she paused to glance at the other women shooting at the oncoming horde. Their faces were determined, their movements confident. Arrow after arrow was finding its target. Her heart soared.

“We are Trojan women,” she yelled at the enemy. “Come against us and we will kill you!”

She no longer could see the Trojan defenders beneath her; they were hidden by the jutting balcony. She and her archers kept shooting into the mass of enemy faces. She did not hear the megaron doors close.

No time seemed to pass as she carried on shooting, yet she realized it was growing dark. Her shoulder hurt.

“Andromache, fall back! Andromache!” She felt a hand on her arm and found herself being dragged from the balcony. Struggling, she looked up.

“Kalliades! We must fight on!” she cried.

“We are fighting on, Andromache. But you must rest. You are wounded.”

“Are the doors closed?”

“We have retreated to the megaron, and the doors are closed. The enemy is bringing ladders to the balcony. The fighting there will be hand to hand. It is the only place they can hope to break in until they can force the megaron doors. Your women have been magnificent, and they still have a part to play. We need you and your bows on the gallery. But you must rest first,” he urged. “There is time. Then you will be ready to fight on.”

She nodded and looked at the wound on her shoulder. Blood was flowing freely. She guessed an arrow had made the deep groove, though she could not remember it. “I will have my wound dressed once the other women have been attended to.”

“That has already happened. You were the last to leave the balcony.”

“Are any of them hurt?”

“Yes, but minor wounds only.”

“Then I must see my son.”

He nodded. “Very well. Go, see your son. I will find someone to tend your wound.”

Andromache walked through the palace, pushing her way through a megaron packed with men and horses, hardly seeing the frenzied activity around her, her mind in a whirl. She still could feel the smooth wood of the bow in her palm, the straightness of each arrow in her fingers, the muscles in her arm tensing as she drew back, the smooth release—over and over again.

The queen’s apartments were dusty and dark. Stillness lay on the rooms as heavily as the dust. Wounded men were being cared for in the queen’s gathering room, so she skirted it and made her way to the rear chamber where the boys slept. Astyanax and Dex were fast asleep, tucked up in the same bed, their two heads, one red and one fair, close together.

Andromache watched them breathing and stroked each small head. Her mind slowly calmed.

Behind her a voice said hesitantly, “Andromache?”

She started and turned. “Xander!” she said in surprise, embracing the freckle-faced healer. Kalliades, who had brought him, raised an eyebrow.

“This lad says he is a healer. Clearly you know him.”

“He is a good friend of mine and of Odysseus. We voyaged together. I feared you dead, Xander. You have been gone so long.”

As he examined her shoulder and applied ointment and a dressing, she told him of her travels and of Gershom’s sudden departure from the Xanthos. Xander explained how he had ended up in the enemy camp and talked about the time he’d spent with Odysseus and Achilles.

“You should have taken the Ugly One’s advice,” she told him, “and fled the city.”

“You did not,” he countered quietly.

She remembered her last talk with Polites and shook her head, smiling. “You are right, Xander. It is not my place to judge you.”

Xander examined the deep gash on Kalliades’ thigh. “It is very angry,” he said, frowning, “and I think corruption is setting in.” From his satchel he brought out some dry brown vegetation. “This is tree moss,” he explained to them. “It is old, but it still has virtue to purify.” He bound it to the wound with a bandage. “The wound should have been stitched long since,” he told the warrior. “I fear it will always pain you.”

Kalliades told him, “If I live through this day, I will rejoice in the pain.”

After healer and warrior had left, Andromache sat with the sleeping boys. She scanned Astyanax’s face, seeking something of his father in the angle of an eyebrow, the curve of an ear. She wondered again where Helikaon and the Xanthos were. Then the familiar demon guilt rose in her heart, and she thought of Hektor. She realized how much she missed him and found herself wishing he was there beside her. She always felt safe with Hektor. With Helikaon there was always danger.

She wandered to the north window, where light was fading on the plain of the Simoeis. She recalled her trip by donkey cart into the city with the cargo of tin. That night she had looked up at those high windows and wondered if anyone was up there staring down. Now she looked down into darkness and guessed no one was there. With the city open to him, Agamemnon would not waste men guarding the sheer north walls.

The north walls. Look to the north. Suddenly Andromache realized what the words meant. She leaned over the window ledge and looked far down to the bottom of the cliffs. If she could find rope, could she get two children down the vertical cliff? She moved her wounded shoulder. Back and forth did not hurt much, but when she lifted it above her head, the pain was agonizing. She could never do it.

Yet Odysseus and Kassandra always gave good advice, each in his or her own way. And they were right. It was the only path left to her now if she hoped to save her son. She leaned over the window ledge again. Darkness was gathering, but as she looked down, she could just make out a figure climbing toward her.

Her heart seemed suddenly to slow, and its thudding echoed in her ears. She could not see the climber’s face, not even his age or build, but she knew without a doubt that it was Helikaon.

Earlier that day, while the sun still sat high in the sky, Helikaon stood impatiently on the prow of the Xanthos as the great bireme made her last journey up the Simoeis.

His emotions had been in disarray since, off Lesbos two days before, they had encountered a Kypriot vessel loaded with refugees from Troy and had heard of Hektor’s death and the fall of the city. Hektor dead! He had found it impossible to believe. Hektor had been feared dead before. But he heard the refugees’ tales of the duel with Achilles, the poison and betrayal, and the great funeral pyre, and with pain in his heart he knew it to be true.

There was no news of Andromache, but he was sure she still lived; he knew every bone in his body would ache if she was no longer in his world.

Now, as the galley slipped up the narrowing river, he looked south toward Troy. The oarsmen, too, kept glancing at the city, their faces grim, watching the flames leaping from the walls, darkening the pale sky to the color of bronze.

Suddenly Helikaon could wait no longer. He ordered the starboard rowers to ship their oars, and the oarsmen to port guided the galley into the side. Even as she bumped gently into the reed-covered bank, Helikaon turned and addressed his crew.

“You are all Dardanians here,” he told them, his deep voice somber. “My fight is not yours. I am going to the city, and I will go alone. If any of you wish to return to Dardanos, leave here and now, and may the gods walk with you. For the rest of you the Xanthos sails at dawn. If I do not return, Oniacus will be your captain. He will first take the ship to Thera, then follow the Trojan fleet to the Seven Hills.” He glanced at his right-hand man, who nodded. They had discussed this at length, and he knew Oniacus would follow his orders loyally.

But there were cries from the men, “We will go with you, Golden One!”

Helikaon shook his head. “I will go alone,” he repeated. “I do not know if anyone can get into the city now. And if we could, even the eighty of you, brave men and true, would make little difference against the hordes of the enemy. Go to the Seven Hills. Many of you already have families there. It is your home now.”

There were more shouts and entreaties from the crew. But Helikaon ignored them, strapping to his back the scabbard with its twin leaf-bladed swords, then hefting a thick coil of rope onto his shoulder.

The cries died down, and then a single voice asked, “Do you plan to die in Troy, lord?”

He stared coldly at the questioner. “I plan to live,” he told him.

Then he vaulted smoothly over the side and onto the riverbank. Without a glance back at the Xanthos, he set off at a steady lope toward the Golden City.

As he ran, his thoughts were of Andromache and the boys. If she still lived, Dex and Astyanax must be alive. She would fight to the death for them, he was certain. Two nights and two days had passed since the enemy had entered the city. Could anyone still be alive? How long could they hold Priam’s palace? In the previous siege the defenders had numbered a mere handful, yet they had held back the invaders all night. This time the number of the enemy could be a hundred times greater. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the endless speculation. First he had to find his way in.

It was getting dark when he reached the north walls of the city. He made his way to the point directly beneath the queen’s apartments. Looking up, he could see lights in the high windows. They seemed so close. Yet to get there he had to scale a dry, crumbling vertical cliff face. That was the easy part. Above that was the sheer limestone wall of Troy itself.

When he and Hektor had been young men, they once had competed to make this climb. Scaling the lower cliff, with its numerous handholds and footholds and rocky outcrops, they had ascended quickly, shoulder to shoulder. Then they had reached the point where the cliff ended and the wall began. There was a wide ledge there, and they had paused. They both had looked up at the golden stones from which the wall was fashioned. They were massive, each more than the height of a man, and so cunningly crafted that there was not the narrowest fingerhold between them. The pair had turned to each other and laughed. They had agreed it was impossible and had climbed down, their friendly contest over.

Now, a man ten years older, he was planning to try something a youngster at the height of his strength could not do. Only desperation would make him attempt it, but he could see no other choice.

He started to climb. As he remembered, the hand-and footholds were plentiful, although dry and crumbly after the hot summer. The initial ascent was not difficult, and within a short time he was on the ledge that marked the top of the cliff and the bottom of the wall. He paused for breath, looking up again. He had come this far. He could not stop now. But in the gathering dark he could see not a single handhold.

He dropped the coil of rope on the ledge beside him. In desperation he looked up again. Miraculously, leaning over the window ledge high above him, her chestnut hair a halo of flame in the light from the window, was Andromache.

“Goddess,” he whispered. “I am truly blessed.”

“Andromache!” he called. “Catch the rope!”

She nodded silently. He picked up the rope again, carefully trapping the loose end under one foot. He steadied himself, then with a mighty effort threw the coil upward. But his caution made it fall short. Andromache grasped vainly at thin air, and the rope fell back, missing Helikaon and looping far down the cliff. Patiently he wound it up again. Now he had the measure of the throw, and at his second attempt he hurled the coil harder and it landed in Andromache’s waiting hands.

She disappeared from sight, then was swiftly back, calling down to him, “It is secure!”

He cautiously leaned his weight on the rope, and it held firm. Within heartbeats he had shinnied up it and was over the window ledge.

Andromache fell into his arms. Only then did he allow himself to believe fully that she was still alive. He pressed his face into her hair. It smelled of smoke and flowers. “I love you,” he said simply.

“I can’t believe you are here,” she answered him, gazing into his eyes. “I feared I would never see you again.”

There were tears in her eyes, and he pulled her close, feeling her heart beating. For a long moment time slowed. He forgot about the war and surrendered himself to their embrace. The fears that had been plaguing him, that he would find her dead, their sons murdered, evaporated as he held her close and their hearts beat as one.

“Dex?” he whispered. She drew away from him and took his hand. She led him to the little bed in the next room where the two boys lay. He bent down to look into his son’s face and touched his fair hair.

When he turned back to Andromache, her face had become grave. They walked back out of the room, and then she put her arms around him and drew a deep breath. She said, “My love, there is something I must tell you.”

At that moment, the door of the chamber opened and two warriors burst in. Kalliades and Banokles stopped in shock. Helikaon did not know which surprised them more, his presence in the room or the fact that he was holding Andromache in his arms.

Kalliades recovered first. “Helikaon! You come unlooked for!” He glanced toward the window, seeing the knotted rope.

Helikaon said quickly, “Do not expect an army to come swarming up the walls. I come to you alone. But you have my sword if it will make a difference.”

“You will always make a difference, lord,” Kalliades said, “though the situation is grave.”

“Tell me.”

“Agamemnon has thousands waged against us. We number less than a hundred. They have taken the palace wall. It is taking them a while to break through the megaron doors, but they cannot last much longer.”

Helikaon remembered that Priam had had the doors renewed after the previous siege. They were fashioned from three layers of oak, cross-grained, reinforced with metal bars that locked into holes in the floor and ceiling. It was unlikely they could be forced, only hacked slowly to pieces.

“The king?” he asked.

“Priam and all his sons are dead. Astyanax is king.”

Andromache cast Helikaon an agonized glance and looked toward the window. He nodded. “I have a duty here,” he told her. “Then we will save the children.”

The warriors walked through the palace to the megaron, where Helikaon was proud to see order and calm, though the air was thick with the scent of death. There were a hundred heavily armored soldiers, most of them wounded and bloodstained, all so exhausted that they barely could stand. A few stood facing the doors, where even now the wood was starting to splinter under the heavy heads of axes. Most sat or lay, conserving their energy, too tired to speak. But one of them, in the armor of an Eagle, scrambled up as they passed.

“Helikaon!” he cried.

Helikaon turned and smiled. “Polydorus, it is pleasant to see you alive.”

“Have your brought an army, my friend?”

“No. I bring only my sword.”

“Then you bring us hope. There is little enough here now.”

Helikaon nodded. Looking down, he saw horse droppings on the floor. He frowned. “Horses?” he asked.

Banokles grinned. “There are a few left. I’ve had them locked away somewhere safe.”

“Who commands here?” Helikaon asked. “Lucan?”

Banokles shook his head and grunted. “Lucan fell at the Scaean Gate. Tough old bastard. Thought he’d live forever.”

He told Helikaon curtly, “You’re the only king on this side of those doors.”

But Helikaon shook his head. “You have fought for this city all summer, General. You know every man here and what he is capable of. You command here. I am just a foot soldier, Banokles. My sword and my life are yours.”

Banokles sighed and shot a glance at Kalliades, who threw his head back and laughed. The laughter rang around the megaron, and men turned their heads at the unaccustomed sound. “Tell us your plan, then, General,” Kalliades asked his friend, grinning.

“There are thousands of the bastards, most of them Mykene veterans,” Banokles replied. “Not one soft-bellied puker among them. We’re just a hundred. When the thunder rolls, they’ll have the better of us. But by the bloody spear of Ares we’ll make them pay for every step they take!”

The hundred defenders stood in line three deep facing the doors. In the front two lines were the last of the Eagles. Front and center was Helikaon, wearing the armor of a Royal Eagle, with Banokles and Kalliades. Behind them stood Polydorus. Out in front, on either side of the doors, were two Thrakian archers.

Andromache was on the gallery watching them, bow in hand. She remembered the last time the four men had been together in this megaron, when Banokles and Kalliades had fought for the Mykene and Helikaon and Polydorus had defended the stairs. She wondered at the irony of life and the tyrannical whims of the gods that had brought them together again.

She could see Helikaon’s profile and saw him turn his head briefly to glimpse her. She wondered if this would be her last sight of him alive. She knew he had come there with the intention of rescuing her. Yet once here, he could not leave friends and comrades to fight on without him. In the heat of the battle he would forget about her and her boys. For a moment only she felt sorry for herself. To be in his arms once again and then to have him snatched away by duty and loyalty seemed so cruel. Then she hardened her heart. Helikaon must follow his duty, and he would live or die. Her duty this day was to fight until the battle was lost, then escape with her sons somehow down the cliff. She thought again of Kassandra’s words, “We will meet again, Sister, before the end,” and took courage from their message.

The ax heads tearing relentlessly at the heavy oak doors finally had cut a hole. She could see movement on the other side. Then she saw Banokles step forward from the front line, hefting a lance, and with astonishing accuracy and strength throw it through the gap. There was an explosion of curses on the other side, and the Trojans all cheered. The cry was taken up all around the megaron: “Banokles! Banokles! BANOKLES!”

Then the hole in the door was hacked wider, and warriors started forcing their way through. The two archers loosed arrow after arrow into them. Six Mykene fell before their comrades managed to get as far as the Trojan line. At first they only climbed in one at a time, and the men on the front line dispatched them with ease. Then they started pouring in and succeeded in releasing the metal bars. The ruined doors groaned open.

Andromache watched with pride and fear as the small band of Trojan fighters held back the forces of Agamemnon. Despite the power of the Mykene attack, the slaughter was terrible in their ranks. Helikaon, Kalliades, and Banokles fought with cool efficiency, each armed with shield and sword. Every attacker fell swiftly to their blades, and for a moment Andromache gave in to hope. Then she looked through the doors and saw the ranks of the enemy, all armed to the teeth, ready to replace their fallen comrades. All hope drained away.

She looked around. The narrow Trojan line across the megaron was protecting the stone staircase and the gallery. If it was pushed back even a few paces, the enemy could reach the side of the gallery, throw ladders up, and get behind the defenders. The Mykene would not make the mistake they had made the last time and be drawn by arrogance to attack the stairs while neglecting the gallery. Agamemnon, a cool thinker, would have made sure of that.

The women archers had been ordered to protect the gallery. With them were some civilians, traders and farmers, and a number of old soldiers well past their fighting years who were charged with pushing away the ladders and guarding the women.

The brute strength of the Mykene advance soon started to take its toll on the exhausted defenders, and the line was being forced back at each end. Andromache saw Trojans falling, to be replaced instantly by their comrades behind. Yet slowly the two wings of the line were being bent back. Only the center held.

“Be ready!” she shouted, and the women raised their bows. Ladders were passed from hand to hand over the heads of the Mykene, and then she heard one bang against the gallery wall. Half a dozen arrows slammed into the first warrior to climb a ladder.

Below them one wing of the defending line had been pushed back farther. “Hold the line!” someone bellowed. A group of old soldiers hurried down the stone stairs, bellowing their battle cries, to lend their support to the collapsing wing.

More and more ladders were raised, and soon Mykene warriors were climbing onto the gallery. Andromache saw the civilians attacking them with swords and clubs, fighting without skill but with desperation. Still the women stood their ground, raining their shafts into the enemy.

The defenders below had been forced back to the stone staircase, and Andromache saw a few Trojan soldiers fleeing up the stairs. Then she realized they were racing to defend the gallery.

Kalliades left Helikaon and Banokles fighting side by side on the stairway and sprinted up the steps toward her. As he passed, he snarled, “Retreat now, Andromache!” Armed with two swords, he slammed into the advancing Mykene.

Andromache shouted to the women to retreat to the queen’s apartments. One was already dead, but several wounded archers limped past, including little Anio, blood streaming down one arm. The others fought on, loosing arrow after arrow into the Mykene. Two were cut down. Penthesileia stood her ground alone, then fell with a dagger in her side.

Andromache grabbed her bundle of arrows and turned to flee—and saw two Mykene warriors stalking toward her, cutting off her path of retreat. The first lunged his sword at her. Instinctively she blocked the blow with her bundle of arrows, then grabbed an arrow in her fist and stepped in. With a cry she plunged it into the eye of the attacker. He fell, clutching the shaft.

The second warrior raised his sword for a killing blow. Then he fell to his knees, hit on the head from behind by a man wielding a club. The Mykene, dazed, twisted around and rammed his sword into the belly of his attacker. Andromache picked up the first Mykene’s sword and hacked at the second man’s neck until he was still. She stepped over the bodies to reach her rescuer, who was slumped against the wall, thick blood staining the front of his clothing. She knelt down.

“Remember me, lady?” the man whispered, blood trickling from his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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