Fall of Kings

CHAPTER THREE THE AMBER GODDESS

Early-morning sunshine bathed the streets of Troy as Helikaon left the House of Stone Horses and strolled through the town. The business of the day was beginning: Merchants were setting up their stalls in the marketplaces, and servants and slaves were carrying bundles of cloth or produce wrapped in dry reeds. The varied sounds of the city washed over Helikaon as he walked: hammers beating on metal from the Street of Armorers, the braying of donkeys, the clucking of hens, the yelping of dogs, and the cries of the gather-men competing to draw crowds to their stalls.

It felt strange to be back in Troy. The war seemed far away now, the death of Halysia a dark nightmare, unreal and bizarre.

He had awakened that morning to a soft, warm body beside him. In the instant before full consciousness asserted itself he had thought to open his eyes and gaze down at Halysia. Instead it had been Dex, his thumb in his mouth, his head resting on his father’s shoulder. Helikaon had stroked the fair hair back from the boy’s brow. Dex’s eyes had opened, and then the child had fallen asleep again.

Easing himself from the bed, Helikaon rose and dressed. He chose a white tunic embroidered with gold thread and a wide belt embossed with gold leaf. He felt uncomfortable in such finery, but it was fitting for his meeting with Priam. Lastly he took a scabbarded dagger and tucked it into his belt. It was unlikely that assassins would be on the streets of Troy but not impossible.

In happier days Helikaon had walked those streets in the company of Hektor or his brothers Antiphones and Agathon. Those had been the days of innocence, when the future had promised wonders. It was here on these streets, ten years earlier, where he and Hektor had argued about the merits and drawbacks of marrying for love alone.

“Why would you want to?” Hektor had asked. “All the actions of a prince must strengthen the realm. Therefore, a wife should bring a handsome dowry, land, or promises of alliance with her father’s kingdom. A prince can find love wherever he wishes thereafter.”

“I do not agree,” Helikaon had replied on that far-off day. “Odysseus loves his wife and is happy. You should see them together, Hektor. You would change your views in a heartbeat. Odysseus says that life without Penelope would be like a land without sunshine. I want a wife who brings me happiness like that.”

“I hope you find her, my friend,” Hektor had said.

And he had. He had found the woman of his dreams.

How ironic, then, he thought, that it should have been Hektor who had married her.

He paused to examine some Egypteian jewelry on display and immediately was accosted by an elderly merchant, a slender dark-skinned man with henna-dyed hair and beard.

“You won’t find better, sir. Not anywhere in the city.” The man lifted a heavy brooch of amber decorated with gold wire. “Sixteen silver rings, sir. A real bargain.”

“In Egypte last season,” Helikaon commented, “sixteen silver rings would buy a sack of these baubles.”

“Perhaps, sir,” the man replied, his dark eyes narrowing. “But since there is now no trade with Egypte, who knows what price amber is fetching?”

“Wise words,” Helikaon agreed, casting his gaze around the marketplace. “There are fewer stalls than I recall from my last visit.”

“A few have left,” the merchant agreed. “More will follow, I think. My brother packed up his wares as soon as the fortification ditch was dug. Too early, I said. But he always was timid. Now they say there’s going to be a wall to protect the lower town. If that’s true, I’ll follow my brother.”

“An interesting point,” Helikaon observed with a smile. “You will stay only as long as the lower town is badly defended?”

The merchant chuckled. “Priam is a good king. Has to be said, though, that he’s careful with his wealth. If he has now agreed to the expense of a wall around the lower town, it will only be because he cannot stop the Mykene coming to this land. Well, I have walked through the ruins of towns plundered by the Mykene. I’ll not wait to see such sights again.”

Helikaon nodded. “I see the logic in your words, but surely still more merchants will quit the city if Priam builds no wall to defend them?”

“Yes. Who’d be a king, eh?”

On the stall Helikaon’s eye was taken by an amber pendant on which an artist had incised the figure of the goddess Artemis, her bow extended, the string drawn back. It reminded him of Andromache and the way she had stood on the balcony of Priam’s megaron, calmly shooting arrows down into the Mykene attackers. Lifting the pendant, he examined it more closely. It was finely carved.

“You are a wonderful judge of jewelry, sir,” said the merchant, immediately slipping back into his sales patter, “for you have chosen the pride of my collection.” He was about to go on when Helikaon interrupted him.

“Before you speak, let me say I am in no mood to haggle today. So this is what we will do. You will name one price. If I like the price, I will pay it instantly. If not, I will drop this bauble back onto the stall and walk on. Now, name the price.”

The old merchant licked his lips, then rubbed his chin. As he did so, he stepped out from behind the stall, appearing deep in thought. Helikaon stood quietly as the merchant observed him. “Twenty silver rings,” the man said at last.

“I agree,” Helikaon told him with a smile. “You are a clever man. What is your name?”

“Tobios.”

“A Hittite?”

The merchant shrugged. “I suppose that would depend on who asked. The land in which I was born is fiercely contested. The pharaohs would say I am a foul-hearted Hittite desert dweller, but the land is currently ruled by Emperor Hattusilis of the Hittites. Therefore, I am now considered to be a foul-hearted Egypteian desert dweller. Life for my people is always complicated.”

Helikaon smiled. “Such complications help sharpen the wits,” he said. As he spoke, he counted out the twenty silver rings and laid them on the stall. “If you choose to remain in the city, Tobios, come and see me at the House of Stone Horses. I am Helikaon of Dardania, and I always have need for men of good judgment.”

Tobios bowed his head and touched his heart in the Hittite manner.

Helikaon walked on, the amber pendant in his hand. The price had been high. The merchant had looked at his clothing, appraising through its quality the wealth of the wearer. The white tunic was of Egypteian design, woven from the finest thread. The engravings on his belt were filled with gold leaf. His sandals were fashioned from crocodile skin, brushed with gold. If he had not been dressed for a meeting with King Priam, he would have worn old comfortable clothes and bought the pendant for two-thirds of the price.

Moving on through narrow streets and open squares, he reached the mighty Scaean Gate with its six guardians of stone, passing through to the upper city with its palaces and gardens and avenues. Indications of wealth lay everywhere. Women wore heavy necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, and the men sported expensive toques or wristbands.

At the palace Helikaon was ushered through to the gardens, where nobles hoping to see the king were allowed to wait in comfort rather than stand in the crowded megaron. There was a chill in the air, and several braziers filled with burning charcoal had been set up.

Helikaon looked around, nodding greetings to those he knew. Then he turned, and his stomach tightened. Just paces away, a rust-colored cloak around her shoulders, stood Andromache, sunlight glinting upon the red gold of her hair. She was wearing a long yellow gown that sparkled like summer sunshine. Helikaon’s mouth was dry, and he felt nervous and awkward. Andromache stepped toward him.

“I was so sorry to hear of Halysia’s death,” she told him, “though my heart was lifted by the manner of it. The gods will cherish her, I think.”

“Perhaps. But in life she deserved better,” he replied. “From life, from me. The people loved her greatly, though, and they will not forget her, I think.”

“And how is the boy?”

“Dex is brave but scarred now. Last night he had nightmares and ran to my room. I slept with him curled up against me. A child should not have to see his mother die.”

“But when he grows,” she told him softly, “he will know she loved him so much that she was willing to give her life for him. It will sustain him.”

Andromache saw his handsome face soften, and he gave a sad smile. She wanted to reach out and hug him in that moment, remembering that he, too, had watched his mother die. Instead, she forced herself to stand still and said politely: “I hope you will bring your son to visit us while you are in Troy.”

“I would like that, Andromache.”

She reddened as he spoke her name. “I am here to see the king,” she told him suddenly, the comment both redundant and ridiculous, since the only reason anyone was in the garden was to see the king.

Angry with herself, she went on. “I meant to say I have been called here to see the king. A ship arrived yesterday from Thera with a message from the High Priestess. It probably concerns Kassandra. As you know, she is to become a priestess at the Temple of the Horse. You did know that?”

Sweet Artemis! Help me stop babbling!

“Yes, I did. I am to take her on the Xanthos next spring. Are you well?” he asked suddenly, concern in his eyes. “You seem flushed.”

“I am well. Just a little warm.”

“I shall fetch you some water,” he said, and moved away.

There were many people in the garden waiting to see the king. As Helikaon walked away, the crowd parted for him. Andromache could see he was oblivious to the effect he had on the people around him. He did not seem to notice the envious glances from the men or the openly admiring stares from the women.

A shadow fell across her. She looked up to see her husband, Hektor. He, too, was looking across at Helikaon, his face expressionless. Andromache thought she saw sadness in his eyes.

“What is wrong, husband?” she asked, taking his arm.

He shrugged and drew her close. “What could be wrong when I have you beside me? Did I miss any interesting conversation with Helikaon?”

“No, not really. I asked him to bring his son to see us.”

Hektor’s brow furrowed, and she felt him tense. “Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Why would I not?” she responded, suddenly uncertain.

When he answered her, the anguish in his voice was so great that the words slid through her defenses like daggers. “How many of his sons do I need in my house, Andromache?”

The shock was so great, she felt sick. Hektor had promised to raise the boy Astyanax and love him as he would his own child. He had been true to his word, and Andromache never before had heard him express such feelings. Rarely at a loss for words, Andromache had no response. She merely stood and looked at her husband, seeing yet again the resemblance to his father. Until this moment he had reflected everything that could have been great in Priam—courage, compassion, kindness—but now she wondered how many of his father’s weaknesses he also had inherited.

Turning away from him without a word, she walked to a brazier, reaching out her hands and rubbing them over the fire as if seeking warmth. There was anger in her, but not for Hektor. She was angry with herself. Of course her husband would be hurt by her invitation! He knew she loved Helikaon. She had confessed to Hektor on their first evening alone about the night she had shared a bed with Helikaon. Having survived an assassin’s blade, Helikaon had fallen into a fever, poison in his blood.

A healer from the desert told Andromache that Helikaon appeared to have lost the will to live. He suggested that a naked woman be brought to his bed to remind him of the joys of life. A few nights later, fearing Helikaon was dying, Andromache let fall her dress and slid into the bed alongside him. The following morning, when Andromache returned to his room, Helikaon told her he had dreamed of her. She realized then that he had no memory of their lovemaking. Not only had she allowed him to believe the dream, she later had kept from him the knowledge that he had a son.

Standing by the brazier, she found her mood sliding ever downward, bleak thoughts filling her mind. She had arrived in this city as a young priestess, proud and honest, determined that the deceptions and deceits of Troy would not sully her. She would not be drawn into a world of lies and intrigue. Stupid, arrogant girl, she chided herself. Since her arrival she had become pregnant by one man while betrothed to another, had seduced the old king to make him believe her son was his, and had poisoned Hekabe, the dying queen of Troy.

But Hekabe had been a queen of malice, she told herself, who had murdered her sister and would have murdered her friends. As for seducing Priam, what other course had there been? If he had discovered the truth, Astyanax would have been taken from her, perhaps killed, and she would have been executed, and Helikaon, too.

Evil will always seek to justify its actions, she reproached herself.

Her thoughts bleak, she turned toward Hektor. Before she could speak to him, she heard a young soldier call out to him. It was Polydorus, the king’s bodyguard. He crossed to where Hektor stood.

“The king is asking for you both,” he said, glancing at her, “in the Amber Room.”

Propelled by the wind the Trojans called the Scythe, the great flock of golden birds flew south, leaving behind them the icy peaks of the Rhodope Mountains and the fierce winter of Thraki. Driven by a migratory instinct, the birds dipped and swooped, skimming over the waves and isles of the Great Green. Early-morning sunshine gleamed on feathers of yellow and black as the golden cloud flew above the city of Troy.

On a high balcony, dressed in an old robe of faded gold, Priam gazed up at the migrating flock of orioles. They swooped above him, twisting and turning in the sky, as if drawn to the king’s golden robe. Priam raised his arms and called out to them. “I am your king, too, little birds.”

For a few moments the arrival of the flock made the old king forget his troubles. He recalled that his beloved Hekabe had studied the migratory habits of scores of birds: white-tailed eagles, pygmy owls, pelicans, lapwings, and many more whose names he had forgotten.

The golden orioles, though, were special to Troy, Hekabe had insisted. If their migration to the coasts of Egypte began before the Feast of Ares, the winter would be harsh and cold and full of storms and great winds.

The Feast of Ares was still eighteen days away.

Suddenly the golden birds scattered and were gone. A cold breeze whispered across the palace, making the king shiver.

“Fetch me a cloak!” he called out to his aide Polydorus. The soldier emerged on the balcony bearing a new cloak of green wool edged with gold thread. “Not that useless rag,” Priam snapped. “My own cloak, if you please.” Polydorus returned with an old brown garment that was frayed at the edges. Swirling it around his shoulders, Priam walked to the edge of the balcony.

In the early morning he could hear movement all over his city: donkeys braying and roosters crowing, the sounds of carts and horses’ hooves on the stone roads, the shouting as soldiers changed shifts and seamen made their way down to the beach for dawn sailings. He imagined bleary-eyed bakers kneading dough and tired whores making for their beds. Atop the Great Tower of Ilion the four night torches still flickered.

Priam’s eye was drawn constantly to the dark shape of the tower. He used to climb its steep steps every morning to watch the sun rise and look over the city, but he had neglected the practice in recent days.

“How long since I last went to the tower, Polydorus?”

“In the high summer, lord.”

“So long? Time flies swifter than the orioles. I will go tomorrow. The people should see their king keeping watch over them.”

“Yes, lord,” Polydorus said. “Shall I bring your wine?”

Priam licked his lips. The thought of wine was tempting. Indeed, he ached for the taste. “No,” he said at last, the effort of will bringing with it a surge of anger. “No wine today, Polydorus.” There was a time when he had enjoyed his wine as a man should, as an enhancer to the joys of dancing, singing, and sex. Now he thought of it constantly, organizing his day around bouts of heavy drinking. Not today, though. Today he would need his wits about him. No wine will pass my lips until tomorrow, he promised himself.

“Are my visitors here yet?”

“I’ll see, lord.” The young soldier slipped away.

Alone now, Priam thought of Andromache, visions of her bringing a tightness to his chest and a warmth in his belly. Andromache! It was too long since he had seen her. His gaze was caught again by the great tower. He could not see it without thinking of her. He first had met her on its heights, when she had refused to kneel to him, as had his own Hekabe so many years before. Andromache! He allowed himself to remember her as he had seen her that day, in a yellow gown, her flame hair tied back roughly, her eyes bold, gazing at him in a way no young woman should look at a king. He had tried to frighten her, but even as they had stood on the parapet together and she had realized he could send her smashing to the stones below with a single push, he had seen in her eyes that she was ready to reach out and take him with her on the Dark Road to Hades.

And later, when she finally had surrendered to him, as he had known she would, he had glanced out into the darkness and seen the torches on the great tower ablaze. He had known then that his entire life had been destined for that one act. All the battles he had fought, all the sons he had sired—mostly a waste of energy and seed. Even the years with his beloved Hekabe had faded into gray futility. His night with Andromache had fulfilled the prophecy. The Shield of Thunder had brought forth the Eagle Child, and Troy would last a thousand years. He was a king complete, yet his loins still ached for her. Not a day went by that he did not regret the promise he had made her. She had agreed to share his bed—but only until she fell pregnant. She had demanded his word that he would honor that agreement. And he had given it. Fool!

Even so, he had been convinced that she would return to him. Trapped in a loveless marriage with an impotent husband—of course she would.

Yet she had not, and it still mystified him.

“Hektor and Andromache await you in the Amber Room, lord,” Polydorus said, emerging from the doorway. “I have sent a soldier to find Helikaon.”

“He is Prince Aeneas,” Priam snapped. “A noble name, long held in high esteem by my family.”

“Yes, my lord king. I am sorry. I forgot for an instant.”

Priam strolled from his chambers and walked along the wide corridor, Polydorus following him. The room where his guests waited was on the south side of the palace, away from the cold winter winds. Even so there was a chill in the air.

Waiting for him were Andromache, Hektor, and the young Dardanian king. Leaving Polydorus outside to guard the door, Priam stepped inside to greet them. As he did so, he could not stop his eyes from lingering on Andromache: the curve of her breasts beneath the yellow gown, the bright green of her eyes, the lusciousness of her lips.

Tearing his gaze away, he said, “Aeneas, my boy, I grieve for you. When my own dear Hekabe died, it was as if my heart had been pierced by a flaming arrow.”

Priam gazed around the room. There was tension there. Andromache was sitting stiffly, her hands folded on her lap. Hektor was standing behind her, his expression stern, his eyes cold. Aeneas seemed oddly ill at ease. Did they know what he was about to ask them? The priestess had arrived only late yesterday but since then might have spoken of the matter to a servant. Instantly he dismissed the thought. The priestess was a tight-lipped old witch and hardly likely to gossip to palace servants. No, there was something else here. Pushing that minor problem from his mind, he focused on the matter at hand.

Looking at Aeneas, he asked: “Is it still your intention to risk the winter seas and voyage west?”

His kinsman nodded. “We need the tin,” he said simply. “With all the sources through Kypros drying up and the Hittites using all the tin they can get, we must seek it from farther afield. If I leave directly, I can get to the Seven Hills well ahead of Odysseus, who will probably winter on Ithaka as he always has.”

Though perilous, it was a good plan, Priam knew. Without tin there could be no bronze for the smiths to work. Without bronze, no swords, no spears, no shields, no helms. Without bronze there could be no victory over the Mykene.

“And you will take the Xanthos? You will not pass unnoticed in that fire-hurling monstrosity.”

“No, I will not,” Aeneas agreed. “But with a full complement of eighty she is faster than any galley and will withstand the stormy seas. Added to which she will carry more tin than any three galleys could. As to monstrosity, well… I do not doubt Agamemnon would agree with you.”

Then Hektor spoke. “If any ship can make it to the Seven Hills in winter and return safely, it is the Xanthos. We must assume Agamemnon will attack again in the spring, be it Dardanos or Thebe-Under-Plakos or Troy itself, and we must have the armor for our troops. I agree: Helikaon should leave as soon as possible.”

“As soon as possible, yes,” Priam said, walking to a small carved table and pouring himself a goblet of water. He glanced again at Andromache. She was wearing a necklace of sea horses carved from ivory. Sea horse clasps held back her thick red hair. She sat with her hands in her lap and watched him gravely. If she wondered why she had been asked there, she gave no indication.

“There is something else we must discuss,” he told them. “Yesterday a representative of the High Priestess arrived from Thera. It seems, Andromache, a decision has been made about your young friend, the renegade priestess.”

“Kalliope. Her name was Kalliope.” Andromache’s voice was low, but the king could hear the tension in it.

“Yes, Kalliope. As we all know, the punishment for a runaway is to be buried alive on the isle to serve the Sleeping God. This punishment still stands. They require that the girl’s bones be returned to Thera in the spring for burial there, where her soul will be chained to serve the Minotaur for all eternity.”

Andromache opened her mouth to speak, but Priam held up his hand. “Let me finish. Those who aid a runaway must also suffer. Burning is the usual punishment. But the two Mykene soldiers who helped her are now valued members of the Trojan Horse. As patron of the Blessed Isle I have decided that they were unknowing dupes. The High Priestess can make her own representations to Odysseus, who also helped the girl. However, this leaves you, Andromache.”

Hektor’s response, as Priam had expected, was swift.

“Andromache was not responsible for Kalliope’s actions,” he said, an edge of anger in his voice. “She had no idea the girl had left Thera until she turned up at my farm. I will not allow anyone to punish my wife for something she did not do.”

“Yes, yes,” Priam snapped impatiently. “However, the High Priestess does not seek to punish her. She asks that Andromache bring the renegade’s bones to Thera. Andromache is, after all, the reason the girl fled the isle. I have agreed that Andromache should travel to Thera with the bones of Kalliope to make this act of contrition. Kassandra was due to go to Thera in the spring, anyway. Now my two daughters will go together.”

Hektor’s anger flared. “This is insane! Andromache cannot go. This is just a ploy of Agamemnon’s. He has tried to have Andromache killed before. We all know the High Priestess is his blood kin. Now, with her help, he seeks to lure Andromache onto the Great Green. By the spring Agamemnon’s fleets will once more control the sea routes. It is a trap.”

Priam stared at his son coldly. “Of course it could be a trap!” he snapped. “But I cannot refuse. If I do, I risk Troy being cursed by Thera. Such a curse will strengthen our enemies and likely cause our allies to think twice about coming to our aid. But as ever, we will outthink them. We will not wait for spring. Andromache and Kassandra will sail for Thera on the Xanthos. Tomorrow.”

For a moment there was silence. Priam looked at his son and saw that all color had drained from his face.

“No,” Hektor said. “This I will not allow.”

The reaction surprised Priam. Hektor was a fine strategist and a man who understood that risks were necessary in war. Priam switched his gaze to Andromache, expecting her to speak up. She always had an opinion. Instead she sat very quietly, eyes downcast. Then Aeneas spoke.

“It is a clever plan,” he said, “but I must agree with Hektor. The risks are very great. Sailing to Thera in winter, when the days are short, will mean sailing in darkness in treacherous weather. It will also bring us close to the pirate havens.”

“The risks are high,” Priam agreed. “But look at what we face. Our enemies outnumber us; our trade routes have been blocked. In the spring the Mykene may come to our shores in the thousands. Then we will need the Xanthos and all the allies we can muster. With the blessings of Thera we can hold those allies steady. You think I want to expose Andromache and Kassandra to the perils of the winter sea? I do not. But I see no other choice.”

“Then I will go, too,” Hektor stated.

“What?” Priam stormed. “Now, that would be nonsense and you know it. If word got out that you were on the Great Green in a single ship, every Mykene war fleet would be mobilized. No. I have already promised King Ektion that you and the Trojan Horse will ride south to Little Thebe. Enemy armies are ravaging his lands. They need to be crushed or at the least forced back.” Stepping in, he patted Hektor’s shoulder. “Have faith, my son,” he said. “Aeneas is a fine sailor, and I trust him to master the perils of the sea.”

“It is not the sea…” Hektor began. His words tailed away, and with a shake of his head, he walked out onto the balcony.

Thirsty now, Priam called out to Polydorus. The door opened, and the young soldier entered. “Fetch wine!” the king ordered.

“Yes, lord, but you said—”

“Never mind what I said!”

Hektor stood out on the balcony, taking deep drafts of air into his chest. Then he returned to the Amber Room. Pausing before Priam, he said, “As the king orders, so shall it be.”

With that he turned toward Helikaon, who rose from his seat. Hektor gazed upon his old friend and felt a deep sadness sweep over him. This was the man his wife loved, whose son she had borne. Forcing a smile, he said, “Take care, Helikaon. And bring Andromache safely home.”

Helikaon said nothing, and Hektor understood. No promises could be made, for the Great Green in winter was hazardous enough without the added perils of pirates and enemy ships.

Stepping forward, Helikaon embraced him. Hektor kissed his cheek and then pulled away, turning back to his father. But Priam was not looking in his direction. Instead he was gazing hungrily at Andromache. Without a farewell to his wife or his father, Hektor left the room.

He paused outside and leaned against the wall, feeling the cool of the stone against his brow. The turmoil in his mind was like a fever, and his heart was sick.

During the campaign in Thraki, all he could think of was returning home to Troy and to the woman he adored. He knew that Andromache loved another and that Astyanax was Helikaon’s son. Yet when he was with his wife and the boy, he could put those hurtful facts out of his mind. He had never considered what it would be like when Helikaon was in Troy as well, knowing Andromache’s heart belonged to the Golden One and not to him, knowing the child who called him “Papa” was really another man’s son.

Hektor had spent all his young life trying not to be like his father, treating other men with honor and respect and women with gentleness and courtesy. When Andromache had told him she was pregnant with Helikaon’s child, he had accepted it, knowing he could not give her sons himself. But then he had not known her; they had scarcely met. Over the years he had grown to love her deeply, while she still thought of him as a brother, a good friend. He never had shown her how much that had hurt him until today, when she had spoken so blithely of bringing Helikaon’s boy, Dex, to the palace. And now she was to set sail with her lover on a long journey by sea, where they would be together all the time.

Never in his life had he wanted so much to throw himself back into the war, to fight and, yes, to kill. At this moment war and perhaps death seemed wonderfully simple. It was life that was so hard.

He looked up. Coming toward him along the corridor he saw his brothers Dios and Paris. They were speaking together in hushed tones. Dios saw him, and his expression brightened. Then Paris saw him, too. Despite the sadness in his heart, Hektor could not help smiling as he saw that Paris was wearing a breastplate and carrying a bronze helm under his arm. No one, he thought, could look more ludicrous in armor. Paris always had lacked coordination, his movements clumsy. To see him masquerading as a warrior was almost comical. Dios was wearing no armor, merely a white tunic and a leaf-green cloak.

“Well, what did you decide without us, Brother?” Dios asked, his smile fading.

“Nothing that need concern you, Dios. We talked only of Helikaon’s planned voyage to the west.”

Paris pushed forward and stared up into his brother’s eyes, his expression angry. “You will not send Helen back to Sparta,” he said.

“Why would we?” Hektor responded, surprised.

“You think me an idiot? That is what Agamemnon demanded. That is what caused this stupid war.”

Hektor sighed. “I do not think you an idiot, Paris. But you are not using your mind now. The demand for Helen was merely an excuse. Agamemnon does not want her and knew when he made the demand that Father would have to refuse.”

“I know this!” Paris snapped. “It does not alter the fact that Agamemnon has used the refusal to gather allies. Therefore, to accede to his demand would weaken the Mykene alliance. Not so?”

Hektor shook his head. “Not anymore, Paris,” he said. “Had we agreed at the start, then yes, perhaps our enemies would not have been so numerous. Not now, Brother. A king is already dead, and a queen has been murdered. This war will be to the death. No drawing back. Either Mykene will fall or the Golden City will.”

“They will come here, then?” Dios asked. “We cannot stop them?”

“They will come from the north, from the south, from the sea. Agamemnon, Menelaus, Achilles, Odysseus…” His voice tailed away. “And all the lesser kings, bandit chiefs, and mercenary bands seeking plunder.”

“But you will be here to defeat them,” Dios said.

“If the gods will it, Dios, then yes, I will be here. As will you, my brothers.”

Dios laughed aloud and clapped Paris on the back. “You hear that, Paris? You are going to be a hero.” Taking the helm from Paris’ hands, Dios placed it on his brother’s head. It was too large and slid down over his eyes.

“It is as if great Herakles himself has returned from Elysium!” Dios laughed.

Paris dragged the helm clear and threw it at Dios, who ducked. The helm struck the wall and clanged to the floor. Paris lunged at Dios, grabbing his tunic. Dios staggered, and they both fell. Dios scrambled up, but Paris grabbed his ankle and tried to drag him back. Hektor smiled, and his thoughts went back to the days of childhood. Dios and Paris had always been close. Dios unruly and disobedient, Paris quiet and scholarly—they were an odd pair.

Priam’s voice suddenly thundered out. “What in the name of Hades is going on here?”

The two brothers ceased their wrestling and climbed to their feet. Priam advanced down the corridor, his face flushed, his eyes angry. “By the balls of Ares, are you morons?” he shouted. “Sons of Priam do not squabble like children.”

“Sorry, Father,” Paris said. “It was my fault.”

“You think I care whose fault it was? Get out of my sight, the pair of you.”

Dios and Paris backed away. “Whose is this?” Priam asked, pointing to the dented bronze helm.

“Mine, Father,” Paris told him. Priam hooked his foot under the brow of the helm and skillfully flicked it up in the air toward Paris. The young man reached out hesitantly, and the helm struck his fingers. With a cry of pain he leaped back, and the helm once more bounced to the floor.

“I must have been sick with fever the day I sired you.” Priam sneered, turning on his heel and striding back to the Amber Room. As the insult echoed in the air, Paris looked crestfallen.

Hektor picked up the fallen helm, handing it to Paris. “He has much on his mind, Brother,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Paris answered bleakly, “but what difference does that make? When has he ever missed an opportunity to humble his sons?”

Dios stepped in and curled his arm over his younger brother’s shoulder. “Do not take it so seriously, Paris,” he advised. “Priam is old and increasingly frail. With luck we will both live long enough to piss on his funeral pyre.”

Paris grinned. “That is a happy thought,” he said.

The three brothers walked out of the palace into the midmorning sunlight. Dios and Paris set off for the lower town, and Hektor made his way back to his own palace. There he found little Astyanax with his nurse, playing in the gardens. The child, dressed in a small leather breastplate and helm, was bashing a toy sword against a shield held by the nurse. Then the boy saw him and cried out, “Papa!” Dropping his wooden blade, he ran at Hektor, who dropped to one knee and caught him, flinging him high in the air and then catching him. Astyanax squealed with delight. Hektor hugged him close.

“Will you be the monster now, Papa?” Astyanax asked.

He gazed into the child’s sapphire-blue eyes. “What does the monster do?”

“He kills people,” Astyanax told him.

Hektor lifted the small helm from the boy’s head and ruffled his red hair. “Can I not just be Papa for a while and give you a big hug?”

“No!” Astyanax cried. “I want to kill the monster.” Hektor put the boy down, then dropped to his knees.

“You can try,” he growled, baring his teeth in a snarl and giving a great roar like a lion. Astyanax squealed and ran back several paces to hide behind the nurse. Then, waving his wooden sword, the little boy rushed at Hektor.