“Zeotos!” she shouted. The sounds of fighting outside were closer now, and Andromache sensed the battle was all but over. In that moment she did not care. “Zeotos!” she screamed again.
The old physician came to her side. His face showed his exhaustion.
“What is happening to her?” cried Andromache.
Zeotos hauled at Laodike, half turning her and using a small knife to slice through her dress. Once the skin of her back was exposed, Andromache saw a huge black and swollen bruise extending from her shoulder to her hip.
“Why did you not tell me she had such a wound?” said Zeotos. “I thought she was merely scratched.”
“I believed her to be healing,” Andromache answered.
“Well, she’s not,” said the physician. “She’s dying. The sword or spear must have pierced a vital organ. She is bleeding to death from within.”
“There must be something you can do.”
Zeotos’ shoulders sagged. “Within a few heartbeats I will be able to do nothing for anyone. We are lost. As she is lost. We are going to die.” With that he returned to the wounded man on the table.
Priam approached. He had a sword in his hand. He looked down at his stricken daughter. “Her death will be a merciful release,” he said. Then he looked at Andromache. “When they come, do not struggle. Do not fight. Women have been raped before and have survived. Live, Andromache.” Then he strode away toward the gallery.
Little Kassandra appeared from a hiding place behind the couch. “I didn’t want Father to see me,” she said. “He is angry with me.”
“He is not angry, little one.”
Kassandra grabbed Andromache’s hand. “Yes, he is. Ever since I told him Hektor is coming home. He won’t be angry when he sees him. He’ll be here soon.”
“Oh, Kassandra.” Andromache reached out and hugged the girl. “Hektor is dead.”
“No!” exclaimed Kassandra, pulling away. “Listen to me. I thought he was dead, too. But the voices told me. Then they showed me.”
“What did they show you?”
“Climbing high cliffs. Perils and adventures. Down long rivers . . .”
“Slow down!” said Andromache. “Tell me calmly from the beginning. What cliffs?”
Kassandra took a deep breath. “Hektor and his men were trapped. It was night. Hektor knew the enemy would come again at dawn to kill him, so he exchanged armor with a dead man. Then he and his men climbed the cliffs. Hektor is a good climber. We used to climb sometimes—”
“Stay with your story,” Andromache interrupted. “What happened after they climbed the cliffs?”
“It took them a long time to reach a big river and then to find a boat to bring them to the sea. A long time. That is why no word came. But he is here tonight. Please believe me, Andromache. Hektor will be here soon with lots of soldiers. He will.”
Just then Laodike cried out and opened her swollen eyes. She saw Andromache, who once more gripped her hand and kissed her cheek.
“Rest, Sister,” she whispered.
“I think I’m dying. Oh, Andromache!” A tear fell, and she blinked more away. “I don’t want to die!”
Andromache’s vision misted, and she bit her lip. “I’m so sorry.”
Laodike sighed. “It was all to be so perfect. Argurios and I would . . . live in a palace overlooking the Scamander. I went there only yesterday. It is so . . . beautiful . . . I . . . sat in the garden . . . in the garden. . . .” Her voice trailed away. Then she spoke again. “Where is Argurios?”
“He is fighting. For you. For all of us.”
“He will win. Like my Hektor. Always wins. I am very thirsty.”
Kassandra ran away to find some water. There was little to be had, and she came back with a small goblet containing barely a mouthful.
Andromache held it to Laodike’s lips. She drank a little and then sagged back. “Will you find him for me, Andromache?” she asked. “Bring him to me. I . . . don’t . . . want to be alone when . . . I die.”
“I will find him.”
Laodike closed her eyes and smiled. “Find . . . my . . . Argurios,” she whispered.
II
Argurios was exultant. Everything had worked precisely to plan, and now was the moment he had waited for. Once he was on the stairs, Helikaon beside him, Polydorus and Dios behind, the enemy advance had been halted. Now the Mykene were forced to attack in twos, driving up toward the warriors above them, while the mass of enemy soldiers milled below, helpless against arrows shot at them from above or spears hurled from the gallery. In essence it was the bridge at Partha yet again, the entire battle being fought on a narrow line between consistently equal fighting men. It no longer mattered that the Mykene outnumbered them, for at the point of impact there could only be two enemy facing them on the stairs.
Argurios hammered his shield against his next opponent, forcing an opening. His spear plunged forward, lancing up between helmet and flesh. The warrior stumbled and fell. Argurios slammed his foot against the man’s shoulder, sending him rolling into his comrades. Another Mykene leapt into the fray. He stumbled over the fallen man, and Helikaon killed him.
Again and again fresh warriors surged against the men on the stairs, but there was no give in them, and the death toll continued to rise.
As Argurios had hoped, the Mykene were no longer thinking clearly about their objective. Instead they were focused only on the need to kill the men facing them. That blinded them to alternatives. Argurios knew what they were thinking. One last push and the citadel would be theirs. All they had to do was brush aside the few fighting men on the stairs and victory was within their grasp.
All forward momentum had ceased. Argurios and Helikaon, their legs braced against the rising steps, their shields held firmly, their deadly lances cleaving the enemy, were blocking the way like a wall of death.
At first it would have seemed to the Mykene that they were winning. Now they had been balked, and were losing men without reply. One after another strong warriors were being cut down, their bodies dragged back to make way for the men behind. Now, Argurios knew, the worms of doubt would start to burrow into the hearts of the Mykene. This was not like an ordinary battle. There was no retreat for them here, no safe camp to return to at the end of a day’s fighting. They were no less trapped than the Trojans. If they could not clear this citadel and kill the king before the dawn, other troops would come to Priam’s rescue, thousands of them, from the forts on the Scamander plain or from the barracks in the lower town.
Argurios fought on, no longer tired, every sense alert. He was fighting for more than life now, more than honor. He was fighting for love and was determined that nothing would destroy his chance at happiness with Laodike. He held her face in his mind’s eye, the sweetness of her smile, the radiance of her company. Not one Mykene warrior would be allowed to mount these stairs.
A spear scraped along his cuirass, ripping clear two more of the bronze disks. Argurios twisted to the right, his weapon lunging home. It was a poor hit, thudding into the armored shoulder and spinning the man. Helikaon kicked the man in front of him, spilling him to the stairs, then spun and drove his lance through the throat of Argurios’ opponent. Then both heroes brought their shields to bear against the next attackers.
Moments later it was Helikaon who was thrown back, losing his footing. Argurios blocked a downward lunge that would have ripped out Helikaon’s throat, then hammered his shield against the Mykene, forcing him back. Helikaon made it to his feet and fought on.
The stairs were slippery with blood now, but there was no letup in the fighting. There were no more arrows to shoot from the gallery, and men and women stood there helplessly, staring down at the combatants.
At the top of the stairs Priam waited, sword in hand, staring down at the two men who stood between triumph and disaster.
It was hard to believe these were men of flesh, for they fought like gods, untiring and unbending. The king had come to believe the battle was lost. Now he was
not so sure. Hope flickered. The king glanced around. On every face there was grim determination and a sense of awe and pride at what they were witnessing.
For the first time in many years Priam gazed with pride on his son, Deiphobos, standing behind Argurios, ready to take his place in the battle on the stairs.
Transferring his gaze to the Mykene, he saw there was no give in them, either. They were not frightened or dismayed. They waited patiently for their chance at the fighters on the stairs, their expressions hard and unyielding.
The fragile hope faded in the king’s breast. No matter how valiant the heroes on the stairs, nothing would hold back these blood-hungry barbarians. Soon either Helikaon or Argurios would be cut down, and the murderous assault on the upper levels would begin.
Well, he thought, I shall show these savages how a king dies.
Hefting his sword, he strode forward to stand beside the last defenders.
III
Kalliades spit blood from his mouth and wedged a lump of cloth into his cheek. Argurios’ spear had sliced up under his helmet, ripping through the flesh of his face. He had been lucky. The point had missed his eye by a hair’s breadth. He had been kicked ignominiously back down the stairs and was now sheltering in a rear doorway. Banokles was beside him, his tall shield swung to his back.
“At least there are no more arrows,” said Banokles, passing Kalliades a fresh cloth. Blood was flowing freely now. “Thought he had you,” he added.
“Too damn close,” answered Kalliades, spitting more blood.
“He killed Eruthros. Opened his throat.”
“I saw.”
Kalliades gazed back at the stairs. “We should pull back,” he said. “Gather ladders from the walls. Then we could hit them from several sides.”
“They can’t hold much longer,” said Banokles.
“That is Argurios,” Kalliades pointed out. “He could hold all night.”
“Ah, well,” Banokles answered with a wide grin, “when the king makes you a general, I’ll be your ladder man. Until then I think I’ll keep my head down.”
“I need stitches; otherwise I’ll bleed to death,” grumbled Kalliades. Together the two men moved out into the megaron. There were some forty wounded Mykene warriors already there, being attended to by comrades. Kalliades pulled off his helmet and sat down on Priam’s throne. Banokles doffed his helmet and reached into the small pouch at his sword belt, drawing out a curved needle and a length of thread. With a cloth he tried to wipe away the blood, but it was flowing too freely.
“Made a real mess of your face,” he offered. “Luckily you always were an ugly whoreson.”
“Just stitch it,” snapped Kalliades.
Leaning his head back, he gritted his teeth against the stinging of the needle and the tightening of the raw flesh. Banokles’ fingers kept slipping as fresh blood pumped over them, but eventually the flow slowed.
“Are you going to try Argurios again?” Banokles asked as he tied the last knot.
Kalliades shook his head. “I did my duty once. I don’t want to be the man who killed Argurios. Let someone else send his shade on the dark road. He may be the enemy now, but I’ll be sad when he falls.”
“Well, I’m going back,” said Banokles. “If someone doesn’t clear the path, I’ll never get to ride one of Priam’s daughters.”
“May Ares guide your spear,” said Kalliades.
“He always does,” Banokles replied, donning his helmet. Gathering up his spear, the big man walked back to the fighting.
Kalliades felt a heaviness descend on his spirit. This entire venture was turning to goat shit. Argurios had fooled them, drawn them in to where he wanted to fight. Kolanos was an idiot not to have seen his strategy. They would not break Argurios. Instead the night would slowly drift by, and by morning the entire city would turn on them.
Some of the wounded men were gathering up their weapons again. Others were stretched out, leaking blood to the floor.
A short and a simple battle with plenty of plunder. That was what Kolanos had promised.
Even as he thought of the man he saw him, moving across the megaron, a bow in his hand. Kolanos was wearing no helmet, his white hair flowing free to his shoulders.
Kalliades’ view of him sunk to a new depth. Heroes did not use bows. They fought with sword and lance, facing their enemies, eye-to-eye, hand-to-hand.
Then, in the distance, he heard a horn blow. It echoed mournfully through the night. Then the sound was repeated over and over.
Kolanos paused and swung back to where the Trojan prince Agathon was standing. Kalliades could not hear their conversation, but he saw that Agathon was concerned by the blowing of the horn. His face looked tight and tense, and he kept casting nervous glances toward the door.
Then Kolanos ran back to the scene of the fighting. Agathon headed in the opposite direction, and Kalliades saw him pass out into the night.
Kalliades remained where he was, lost in thought. Had he known Argurios was here, he never would have accepted the mission. Not through fear of the man, for Kalliades feared nothing. Simply because Argurios had an uncanny knack of never losing.
The damned horn continued to blow. It sounded closer now. Kalliades heaved himself to his feet and walked out into the night. There were Thrakians milling in the courtyard, talking in urgent voices.
“What is happening?” asked Kalliades.
“The great gates are open,” a man told him. “More Trojans are coming.”
Then another Thrakian came sprinting through the gates, shouting, “Hektor has returned! The prince is back! Fly for your lives!”
The Thrakians stood still for only a moment. Then they began to stream away through the palace gates.
Kalliades swore and ran back into the megaron.
XXXV
THE SWAN’S PROMISE
I
Argurios battled on, Helikaon beside him. The older warrior was beginning to tire now and knew that soon he would have to step back, allowing either Dios or Polydorus to take his place for a while. He had not recovered fully from the assassination attempt back in the autumn, and his arms were beginning to feel heavy, his breath coming in harsh rasps.
Blocking a spear thrust, he slammed his shield into the warrior facing him, then drove his spear high and hard at the man’s helmet. It hammered into the brow, snapping the warrior’s head back and throwing him off balance. Argurios hurled himself against the man, knocking him back into the warrior behind him. Both fell clumsily. For a moment only there was a gap in the fighting as the Mykene struggled to rise.
Argurios battled on, Helikaon beside him. The older warrior was beginning to tire now and knew that soon he would have to step back, allowing either Dios or Polydorus to take his place for a while. He had not recovered fully from the assassination attempt back in the autumn, and his arms were beginning to feel heavy, his breath coming in harsh rasps.
Blocking a spear thrust, he slammed his shield into the warrior facing him, then drove his spear high and hard at the man’s helmet. It hammered into the brow, snapping the warrior’s head back and throwing him off balance. Argurios hurled himself against the man, knocking him back into the warrior behind him. Both fell clumsily. For a moment only there was a gap in the fighting as the Mykene struggled to rise.
In the distance Argurios could hear a horn blowing. He glanced at Helikaon.
“It is the call to arms,” shouted Helikaon. “Reinforcements are coming!”
A cheer went up from the people on the gallery, and many of them began to shout down jeers and threats to the Mykene. “You are finished now!” bellowed one man. “Like rats in a trap!”
But the Mykene did not run. Instead they launched a fresh attack on the stairs. Argurios fought on. His spear point snapped against a shield. Hurling the weapon aside, he drew his sword. His opponent, a huge warrior, threw himself at him, knocking him from his feet. The enemy’s lance stabbed toward Argurios’ face. Twisting away from the blade, Argurios lashed
out with his foot, catching the man in the ankle. He stumbled. Argurios surged up, his sword plunging through the man’s spear arm at the bicep. The Mykene jerked back, but the sword was stuck fast. Forced to release his hold on the weapon, Argurios leaned back and hammered his foot against the man’s hip. The Mykene fell heavily. Other warriors clambered over him.
“Argurios!” shouted Polydorus, thrusting his own spear into Argurios’ hand. Even as he took it, Argurios twisted his body and surged forward, the point of the spear piercing a warrior’s throat and snapping the neck.
The Mykene warriors at the foot of the stairs were streaming back through the megaron to face the fresh troops arriving there. Argurios could not see them, but he could hear the sounds of battle.
Then he saw Kolanos by the far wall, a bow in his hand.
In that instant a Mykene soldier leapt at Helikaon, knocking him from his feet. Half-stunned, Helikaon tried to roll. The Mykene standing over him raised his spear for a death lunge. Argurios spun and blocked the blow with his shield.
Something sharp and hot tore into his side, ripping through his ribs and driving up into his chest. He staggered, righted himself, and drove his spear into the warrior threatening Helikaon. As the man fell, the others below him turned away from the stairs.
Argurios wanted to follow them, but his legs were suddenly weak and he sank to the stairs. The shield of Ilos fell from his arm, and he gazed down at the arrow buried deep in his side. It had struck exactly the point on his cuirass where the bronze disks were missing.
Helikaon and Polydorus carried Argurios to the gallery, laying him gently down. Fire was running through him now, and he gritted his teeth against the insistent agony. Helikaon pulled Argurios’ helmet clear and knelt alongside him. Then Polydorus placed his hand over the shaft, ready to pull it clear.
“No!” said Argurios. “This arrow and I are brothers now. It has killed me. It is also keeping me alive for a little while. Draw it out and my lifeblood will flow with it.”