Fall of Kings

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR THE GOD OF MICE

Agamemnon wrenched his sword out of Banokles’ chest and handed it to an aide to clean. He was in a good humor. Killing Banokles had put an end to an irritating flea bite he had not been able to scratch. He had no doubt that the traitor’s accomplice Kalliades lay dead somewhere in the mounds of Trojan corpses he had seen between the Scaean Gate and this last corridor.

He had waited all morning with his brother kings Menelaus and Idomeneos, his anger growing as warrior after warrior sent into the stone corridor failed to kill the renegade. But now he was dead, and nothing stood in the way of Agamemnon’s twin ambitions: to kill the boy-king, Hektor’s get, and to win his prize: the treasure of Priam. He knew he must be close to them both for so many Trojans to have died guarding this way.

At the end of the stone corridor was a simple oak door.

“Open it!” he ordered, and two axmen ran forward. But it was not barred and opened at a touch. Preceded by the axmen and flanked by his bodyguard, Agamemnon strode in.

Inside there appeared to be a hospital. Dead and dying Trojans, perhaps forty of them, including a few women, lay on the floor of a great square room. The stench was appalling, and death hung in the air like wood smoke. All eyes turned to him. Some were full of fear; most held acceptance of their fate.

Standing in front of the wounded, holding a sword raised in both hands, was a short young man in a blood-drenched robe.

Ignoring him, Agamemnon looked around. There were no children in the chamber. They must have hidden them. He frowned, his good humor evaporating.

The boy with the sword was saying something. Agamemnon listened impatiently. “Do not kill these people,” the boy asked, his voice trembling. “They can no longer harm you and your armies.”

“Kill him,” Agamemnon ordered the axmen.

“Wait!” Meriones, Idomeneos’ aide, stepped forward in front of the boy. The axmen paused and looked to Agamemnon uncertainly.

“I know you, lad,” Meriones told the boy. “I have seen you with Odysseus.”

The young man nodded and lowered his sword slightly. “I am Xander. I was privileged to be healer to great Achilles and his Myrmidons. I am a friend of Odysseus.”

“Then what are you doing here, lad, with the Trojans?”

“It is a long story,” Xander confessed.

“It is a story I would like to hear,” Meriones told him, looking at Agamemnon. “Spare the boy, Agamemnon King. We could do with a tale or two now that Odysseus has departed.”

“Good riddance,” Idomeneos barked. “I want no more tall tales. Kill the boy and let’s find the treasury.”

Irritated almost beyond endurance by the Kretan king after a long summer in his company, Agamemnon snapped, “Very well, Meriones. As usual, you give me good advice. Healer, I will spare you and your wounded if you tell me where Hektor’s son is.”

The young man replied nervously. “Astyanax is gone, sir. The Golden One took him away last night.”

Helikaon again! Agamemnon felt his fury rising with the speed of a summer storm. “Helikaon was here? Only last night? How is that possible? You are lying, boy!”

“No, sir. I am telling you the truth. He climbed the north wall and took the boys away. The lady Andromache went with him, and—”

“The north wall? But that cannot be climbed!”

“It is true, lord. I expect the rope is still there for you to see.”

He pointed toward the rear rooms, and Agamemnon gestured for a soldier to go look. Menelaus followed him.

Always Helikaon, the Battle King thought, spoiling my plans at every turn! Even at my moment of victory.

Idomeneos rasped, “I have no interest in the killing of Hektor’s son. Troy is finished whether Priam’s line survives or not. Do you fear that Helikaon and the boy-king will raise an army and try to take the city back? Why would we worry? We will find Priam’s treasure and return to our lands.”

Agamemnon nodded. Sharptooth was, as usual, motivated only by his own greed, but in this he was right. The boy could be hunted down at leisure. Nowhere on the Green Great was safe for him. Once Troy was securely in Mykene hands and in the charge of a commander loyal to Agamemnon, the king could go back to the Lion’s Hall and his wife and son and celebrate his victory over Priam and his Golden City. Agamemnon King, Conqueror of the East! His name would go down in legend as the destroyer of Troy.

Good humor restored, he turned to Xander. “I am a man of my word, boy. Tend to your wounded. No more Trojans will die at the hands of the Battle King.”

“Brother!” Agamemnon turned. Menelaus had returned from the rear rooms pale-faced.

“Well? Was the rope there? Is the healer speaking the truth?”

“Yes, Brother, but there is something else you must see.” He gestured urgently for Agamemnon to join him.

The Mykene king sighed. His bodyguard at his side, he followed Menelaus into a small rear room. The window looked out to the north, and to its stone pillar was tied a strong rope. It had been cut near the top.

At Menelaus’ urgent bidding, Agamemnon walked to the window and looked out.

It was well past noon, and the sun shone warmly on the meadows flanking the river Simoeis. Dry throughout the summer, the wide plains had been made verdant by the recent rains. But little greenery was now visible. As far as the eye could see, the plain was covered with armed men, cavalry and infantry in disciplined ranks, motionless, waiting for orders.

Menelaus gasped, “Hittites, Brother! The Hittite army is here!”

On a rocky clifftop to the east of the city the old smith Khalkeus lay in an exhausted sleep, his body curled protectively around the perfect sword. His hands had been burned badly trying to handle the weapon. The numbness in his fingers had masked the pain at first. He also, he thought, had not eaten for several days, although he was interested to find he no longer seemed to need food. His dwindling store of water smelled bad, but he sipped it from time to time.

At twilight he decided to return to the city to present the sword to the king. His few belongings, along with the tent that had sheltered him all summer, had been destroyed in the fire. He tucked the half-empty water skin under one arm and, gingerly cradling the sword across both forearms, set off.

The pain in his hands was torture. He was angry with himself. A smith with his experience should not make the mistakes of an apprentice. The raw red palms would take a long time to heal, and he would be hampered in his work.

He encouraged himself to go forward by visualizing the expression of awe and delight on the Mykene king’s face when he saw the sword, his urgency as he begged Khalkeus to tell him how it was made. The old man felt a moment of regret that it would not be Helikaon who would receive the sword. He always had done his best work with the encouragement of the Dardanian king, but he had no doubt that by now the Trojans and their allies had been destroyed. As he walked toward the city, he could see flames leaping high from within the walls and hear the sounds of battle. He was curious to know how the western kings finally had taken the city. The idea of a great battering ram suspended on chains on a wheeled platform had been forming in his head. Distracted, he stumbled on the rocky ground and nearly fell. Careful, he thought to himself in a moment of clarity. You cannot afford to fall on your hands. He moved more slowly, picking his way in the darkness.

He paused for breath under the walls of Troy, beneath the northeast bastion, and drank some of his water. He sat down for a moment and fell instantly asleep.

It was well past dawn when he woke again. His hands were on fire, and his head ached abominably. He drained the water skin in one long gulp, then vomited most of it onto the ground. He threw away the water skin and slowly got to his feet. A long look at the perfect sword invigorated him, and he set off around the walls. He passed the Dardanian Gate and the East Gate but found them both closed and sealed, and so he headed for the Scaean Gate.

But when he got there, those gates also were closed. He craned his neck to see the top of the wall but could see no guards. He wandered around the ruined lower town, but it was deserted. His strength exhausted, he sat down in the dust outside the wall. The six stone statues guarding the Scaean Gate watched him balefully.

It was a long time before there was a creak and a groan and the gates opened to allow a troop of soldiers out. He saw they were Mykene by their armor, and he struggled to his feet.

“You, soldiers, take me to Agamemnon!” he cried. Ignoring the waves of agony, he took the sword in both hands and waved it at them.

The troop ignored him and marched off down through the town.

“Your king is expecting me!” he shouted despairingly. “This sword is for him, you idiots!”

A single soldier peeled off from the rear of the troop and walked toward him, sword unsheathed. Khalkeus saw that half the man’s face was hideously scarred. Sand, he thought with sudden interest. That must be what red-hot sand does to flesh and skin.

The warrior did not hesitate or pause. “Idiots, are we?” he asked. He rammed his sword through Khalkeus’ chest, dragged it out, and rejoined his comrades.

It was like being hit by a hammer, Khalkeus thought as he fell, the perfect sword cast into the dust beside him. The pain in his hands had disappeared, he realized with relief.

He had a curious dream. He dreamed that he was on the Xanthos and a stiff breeze was filling the black horse sail. The ship cut through the water, which was deep green and strangely still. The Golden One was striding toward him, the sunlight behind him outlining his form but putting his features in shadow. Khalkeus could not see well and felt very weak. Then he realized the golden man was bigger than Helikaon. In fact, he was a giant, and the light around him was not from the sun but was emanating from the man himself. Is it Apollo, the sun god? he wondered. Then, with a shock of realization, he saw the god was limping.

The god leaned down to him and gently took the perfect sword from his hands.

“You have done well, smith,” his deep voice boomed. “Sleep now, and tomorrow we will set you to work.”

Tudhaliyas IV, emperor of the Hittites, strode into Priam’s megaron surrounded by his retinue. Xander watched with interest. He never had seen an emperor before. Apart from the Hittite mercenaries he had treated, who seemed the same as any other mercenaries, the only Hittite Xander had met was Zidantas. Zidantas was huge, with a shaved head and a forked black beard. This emperor was thin and very tall, with a curled beard, and was dressed in shiny clothes like a woman. His retinue was even more strangely garbed in brightly colored kilts and striped shawls. But they all were armed to the teeth, as were their hosts.

Xander had wanted to stay with the wounded, but as Agamemnon left the queen’s gathering room, he suddenly turned to Meriones. “Bring the healer,” he ordered.

Xander now stood nervously at Meriones’ side, feeling that the black-clad Kretan was his only friend in the room.

Emperor and king met in the center of the megaron, which still was heaped with corpses and abandoned weapons. Tudhaliyas looked around silently, his dark eyes revealing nothing.

Agamemnon spoke first. “My condolences on the death of your father. Hattusilis was a great man and a wise leader,” he said, and Xander was surprised at the sincerity in his voice. “Welcome to Troy, a city of the Mykene empire.”

Tudhaliyas regarded him for a moment, then replied mildly, “The Hittite emperor is accustomed to his vassals prostrating themselves before him.”

Agamemnon’s eyes hardened, but he replied evenly, “I am no man’s vassal. I fought for this city, and you enter it with my permission. I opened the Scaean Gate to you as a gesture of friendship. Everything you see belongs to me. And to my brother kings,” he added swiftly, seeing Idomeneos frown.

“You fought to win this charnel house?” Tudhaliyas commented, looking around again at the corpses, the blood, and the gore. “You must be very proud.”

“Let us not misunderstand each other,” Agamemnon replied smoothly. “The allied kings of the west fought to win this city, and by superior strategy and military strength and the will of the gods, we succeeded. Your fame as a strategos precedes you, Emperor. And you know that for a people to dominate the Great Green they must first dominate Troy.”

“You are right, Mykene,” Tudhaliyas said. “It is important that we do not misunderstand each other. Priam ruled this city on the suffrance of the Hittite emperors. Under his kingship Troy flourished and became rich, and the land was at peace. The city guarded the Hittite trade routes by sea and land, bringing prosperity to our great city Hattusas. Trojan troops fought for the empire in many battles. My friend Hektor”—he paused for the words to sink in—“was partly responsible for the triumph over the Egypteians at Kadesh.

“Now,” Tudhaliyas went on, his voice hardening, “Troy is in ruins, its bay unnavigable. All its citizens are dead or fled, and its army is destroyed. The countryside is barren, with crops ruined and livestock dying. That is why I have taken the trouble to come here myself with my thirty thousand warriors.”

He paused, and a thoughtful silence hung in the air.

“The Hittite empire cares little who holds Troy if the city prospers and showers its wealth around it. But a dead city in a dying land attracts only darkness and chaos. The empire is forced to intervene.”

Xander felt the atmosphere in the megaron become icy. There were fewer Hittites in the chamber than there were Mykene warriors, but they were fresher and better armed, and they looked as though they were spoiling for a fight.

Agamemnon gazed around assessingly, perhaps thinking the same thing. “Troy will prosper again under Mykene rule,” he vowed. “By next summer the bay will be full of trading ships once more. The city will be rebuilt, and under our strong leadership it will flourish again.”

Tudhaliyas suddenly stepped forward, and Agamemnon instinctively moved back. The emperor, his bodyguard shadowing him, strode over to Priam’s gold-encrusted throne and sat down gracefully. Agamemnon was forced to stand in front of him to speak to him.

Tudhaliyas told him, “The Bay of Troy has been silting up over the last hundred years, I am told. Now a Mykene fleet lies wrecked there, and already new mud banks will be building around the hulks. My experts predict that within a generation the bay will have disappeared and the city will be landlocked. Trading ships will pass it by in favor of the young cities flourishing higher up the Hellespont. Troy is finished, Agamemnon, thanks to you.”

“I did not start this war, Emperor!” Agamemnon spit it out, his composure lost. “But I saw, before all others, the danger Troy offered to the nations of the Great Green. Priam’s ambition, backed by his son’s cavalry and the Dardanian pirate fleet, was to subdue all free peoples to his will. And while others were bribed or seduced by him, Mykene was not fooled.”

Tudhaliyas leaned back in the throne and laughed, his voice echoing richly in the great stone hall. Then he told Agamemnon, “This nonsense might have fooled your puppet kings as you sat around your campfires at night, telling one another Priam was a monster of ambition determined to conquer the world. Yet this monster brought forty years of peace until you chose to destroy it.”

“I have fought for this city,” Agamemnon roared. “It is mine by right of arms.”

At that moment a Hittite warrior walked into the megaron and nodded to the emperor. Tudhaliyas flicked his eyes to him, then back to the Mykene king.

“So you invoke the right of arms,” Tudhaliyas responded, smiling. “At last, something we can agree on.”

He stood up and looked down at Agamemnon. “Outside this city are thirty thousand Hittite warriors. They are all well fed and well armed, and they have marched a long way without the chance of a good fight.”

He paused as a Mykene warrior came into the megaron and hurried up to Agamemnon. He spoke in the king’s ear, and Xander saw Agamemnon blanch.

“I see you have heard, King,” Tudhaliyas said. “My warriors have taken the Scaean Gate and are already starting to dismantle it. They will unseal all the great gates and take them apart one by one. For a while Troy will be a truly open city.”

Xander held his breath as he waited for the explosion he was sure would come from Agamemnon. But it did not come.

“We discussed misunderstanding earlier,” Tudhaliyas went on smoothly. “I do not want Troy.

“Before I left our capital, Hattusas, with my army, I consulted our… soothsayers, I think you call them. One told me a tale of the founding of this city. He said that when the father of Troy, the demigod Scamander, first voyaged to these lands from the far west, he was met on the beach by the sun god. They broke bread together, and the sun god advised Scamander that his people should settle wherever they were attacked by earth-born enemies under the cover of darkness. Scamander wondered at the god’s words, but that night when they camped on this very hilltop, a horde of famished field mice invaded their tents and nibbled the leather bowstrings and breastplate straps and all their war gear. Scamander vowed his people would remain here, and he built a temple to the sun god.

“But the gods the Trojans brought from the western lands were not our gods. Your sun god is called Apollo, also the Lord of the Silver Bow and the Destroyer. He is a god of might and battle. Our god of the sun is a healer called the mouse god. When our children are sick, they are given a mouse dipped in honey to eat as a tribute to the healing god.

“Over the years, as the city grew, the mouse god’s temple became neglected. The Trojans built greater temples, decorated with gold, copper and ivory, to Zeus and Athene and to Hermes. When the great walls were built around the city, the mouse god’s temple was outside them. When the small temple collapsed during an earthquake, it was not rebuilt, and eventually grass grew over it, and, with perfect irony, field mice ran in its halls.

“Now the last Trojans have left and taken their cruel and capricious gods with them. You, who worship the same gods of the west, will follow them. Perhaps the mouse god will stand on the beach again and watch you go, wondering why you all came here.”

Tudhaliyas stood up, and his voice darkened. “I proclaim that this city will be destroyed,” he ordered. “It will be taken apart stone by stone; then the very stones themselves will be smashed. This city of darkness will vanish from the land.”

As the emperor told his tale, more heavily armed Hittite soldiers moved quietly into the megaron. Agamemnon looked around, and Xander could see that his face was pale and his eyes wild as he watched his ambition come to nothing as the heartbeats passed.

Idomeneos stepped forward. “I care not for your stories, nor for Troy and its fate,” he rasped at the emperor. “I came only for the fabled riches of Priam. That much is due to us. You cannot deprive us of our plunder!”

“And you are?” the emperor asked scornfully.

“Idomeneos, king of Kretos,” said the man, flushing with anger.

The emperor waved his hand dismissively. “Go, little kings; seek out your plunder. But carry it back to your ships quickly. Any galley still in the Bay of Herakles come the dawn will be taken, and its crews dismembered.”

He turned and gave a brief order in his own tongue, then stalked out of the megaron. His retinue followed him, but the rest of the Hittite warriors remained.

Agamemnon seemed smaller now, shrunken by the Hittite’s contempt. He glared around the chamber, and his eyes, full of unfocused anger, settled on Xander.

“You!” he cried. “Healer! Take me to Priam’s treasury!”

Xander stood frozen for a moment. Then Meriones gave him a gentle push, and he said, “Yes, king.”

He knew where the treasury was. It was not a secret. Xander led the kings down a corridor to the rear of the megaron, then down a long flight of steps. They walked along a wide corridor deep below the ground. Above them on either side of the tunnel, carved shapes of stone stared down at them, mythical beasts with teeth and claws, their eyes flickering blindly in the torchlight.

At the end the corridor opened out into a round chamber. Xander and Meriones, the three kings, and their guards crowded in. There was a strong animal smell, Xander noticed. In front of them was a high door lavishly decorated with bronze, horn, and ivory. In the days of Priam the door had been guarded by six Eagles. Now there were no guards, and only a simple oak and bronze bar stopped intruders.

Kleitos, the king’s aide, ran forward and raised the locking bar. He pulled open the door, and Agamemnon stepped forward. The smell wafting out was pungent, and Xander’s nose wrinkled.

The Battle King walked into the darkness of Priam’s treasury, followed by Idomeneos and Menelaus, and then they all stopped. There was a gasp, then a volley of curses. Xander squeezed around the side of the door to see what was happening.

A dozen horses stood blinking at them in the light of the torches. They shifted about nervously, stepping in the piles of horse manure that covered the floor, and the acrid odor from the chamber grew even stronger.

Agamemnon cursed and grabbed a torch from a soldier. He pushed his way among the animals, looking for treasure. He searched frantically around the low square chamber, followed by Idomeneos and Menelaus. It was empty except for the horses and their droppings. Only in the far corner did they find two dusty goblets and a large wooden chest, its lid flung open. Agamemnon reached in and drew out three copper rings, then flung them onto the stone floor. Fury in his voice, he turned to the other kings.

“Helikaon!” he raged. “The Burner has stolen Priam’s treasure from under our noses!”

Menelaus frowned. “But Brother, that is impossible,” he offered nervously. “How could he get it out of the city?”

“He and his crew must have lowered it down the north wall in the night,” Agamemnon guessed. “That was why the rope was cut! To stop anyone following him and stealing it back. They will be far away on the Xanthos by now.”

“It is the fastest ship on the Great Green,” Menelaus added miserably. “We will never catch it.”

“We will if we know where Helikaon is going!” Agamemnon cried. Turning to Xander, he grabbed him by his tunic.

“Tell us, boy,” he snarled into his face. “The Hittites will not save your wounded friends. They will not care if they live or die! Tell us where Helikaon is going, or I will have them taken apart one by one in front of you!”

Xander looked around anxiously, but he could not see his champion Meriones, only the faces of the three kings staring greedily at him.

Please forgive me, Golden One, he thought.

“They are going to Thera,” he said.