Part 19 (1/2)
Helen paused for a heartbeat, her mind dazed and slow, unable to take in the sudden awful fate that had overcome them. Then she took Philea in her arms, grabbed Alypius by the hand, and started downstairs after her husband. The north terrace was her only hope. It was far from the main gates where the enemy was breaking in. The terrace looked toward Troy, and beyond it the land shelved steeply down, covered with scrub and undergrowth, toward the plain of the Scamander. She could get the children down there to hide them or even reach the safety of the city.
On the next level down she heard the smas.h.i.+ng and rending of timbers, and she paused to look out of a window down into the courtyard one floor below. The invaders were pouring through a wide breach in the gates. Palace soldiers who ran to meet them fought desperately, but there were too few of them, and they fell under the weight of numbers.
Then she saw Paris running out across the courtyard, waving his two swords. He was ignored at first; then a huge black-haired warrior turned and saw him. He stepped in front of Paris, who attacked him like a madman. His attack lasted mere heartbeats, and then the black-haired warrior thrust a sword through Paris' throat. Paris fell, his lifeblood gouting out from his neck. He trembled for a moment, then lay still, his bare feet sticking pathetically out of his brown robe.
An old servant, Pamones, who had served the royal family since the days of Priam's father, tried to defend the prince's body with a spear, but he was disarmed casually by the warrior. The man grabbed the old servant by his neck. In a lull in the fighting the warrior's voice drifted up to Helen's ears.
”Where is the princess Helen, old man?” he shouted.
”In Troy, lord,” the man cried, pointing in the direction of the city. ”The lord Paris sent them there for safety.”
The soldier flung Pamones aside, then gazed up at the palace. Helen ducked back out of sight.
”What's happening, Mama?” asked Alypius, who could see nothing of the carnage below.
Hearing pounding feet on the floor below, she picked both children up in her arms and fled up the stairs. The highest level of the palace was the square tower Paris had chosen for his scriptorium. There were shelves and drawers and boxes full of papyrus and hide scrolls. He and Helen had spent many happy days there organizing doc.u.ments in Paris' arcane method. In despair Helen looked around the tower room. There was nowhere to hide. In a daze she took the children out onto the shallow balcony, high above the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff.
”What's happening, Mama?” Alypius asked again, his small face creased with anxiety and fear. Philea was standing quietly, her blue doll held to her mouth.
Helen heard loud feet on the stairs, and the door burst open. A Mykene warrior walked in. His head was shaved, his red beard braided. He brought the smell of the slaughterhouse into the room. Other warriors jostled in the doorway.
Helen clutched the children tightly and backed away. Four warriors approached her slowly, sword in hand.
She retreated across the balcony, her gaze fixed to the four men, until she felt her calves strike the low balcony wall. Carefully she climbed up onto it. The children stopped struggling in her arms.
Alypius glanced over her shoulder to the deadly rocks far below. ”I am scared, Mama!”
”Hush now,” she whispered.
The powerful dark-haired warrior she had seen in the courtyard stepped out before her. He was helmless, and blood flecked his hair and armor.
”Princess Helen,” he said gravely. ”I am Achilles.”
Hope stirred in her laboring heart. Achilles was a man of honor, it was said. He would not kill women and children.
”Lady,” he said gently, sheathing his swords and holding out a hand to her. ”Come with me. You are safe. King Menelaus wishes you to return to Sparta. He will make you his wife.”
”And my children?” she asked, knowing the answer. ”The children of Paris?”
An expression crossed his face that could have been shame, and he lowered his eyes for a heartbeat. Then he looked up at her. ”You are young,” he said. ”There will be other children.”
Helen glanced down and behind her. Far below, the sharp rocks looked like bronze spear points in the dawn light.
She relaxed then and felt all tension flowing away. Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt the warmth of the rising sun on her back. Then she opened them again and gazed at the warriors.
No longer afraid, she looked each one in the eye, a calm lingering look, as a mother might look on wayward children. She saw their expressions change. They knew what she was about to do. Each one lost his look of hungry ferocity.
”Do not do this!” Achilles implored her. ”Remember who you are. You do not belong among these foreigners. You are Helen of Sparta.”
”No, Achilles, I am Helen of Troy,” she said. Hugging the children to her, she kissed them both. ”Close your eyes, dear ones,” she whispered. ”Squeeze them shut. And when you open them again, Papa will be here.”
Achilles darted forward, but too late.
Helen closed her eyes and fell backward into the void.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
BATTLE FOR THE SCAMANDER.
Kalliades leaned against a dripping tree trunk and peered into the darkness in the direction of Troy. The rainy night was as thick as a blindfold around his eyes. He turned back to where he could just see the hundred warriors sitting gloomily around sputtering campfires. Having ridden from Dardanos with all speed, they were merely half a day from the Golden City but had been forced to halt by the moonless night. They were all frustrated and angry and consoled only by the fact that there would be no fighting at Troy until the dawn.
Kalliades had been a soldier since he was fifteen. He had been in hundreds of battles, had suffered the dry mouth and full bladder before a fight, had seen friends suffer a slow agonized death from a belly thrust or the poison of gangrene. It was the same for every man waiting in that woody glade. Yet they were all, to a man, desperate for the first glimmer of dawn so that they could mount up, ride to Troy, and take on the Mykene army. Many of them would die.
Perhaps they all would.
The messenger from Priam to the Dardanos garrison had arrived tired and travel-stained at Parnio's Folly. Banokles and Kalliades had ridden down to speak to him where he stood on the other side of the chasm. Banokles had ordered him to cross, and the man had looked doubtfully at the single narrow span Khalkeus' workers had erected so far. But he was a Royal Eagle, and his head was high and his stride confident as he crossed the narrow bridge. Only as he stepped on to safe ground could they see the fear in his eyes and the sweat on his brow.
”General,” he said to Banokles, who scowled, ”Troy is under attack! Agamemnon has landed hundreds of s.h.i.+ps at the Bay of Herakles. King's Joy is taken, and Prince Paris is dead. Our infantry is trying to stop them at the river Scamander. King Priam commands you to ride to the city's aid.”
Kalliades glanced at his friend and saw the excitement on his face.
”We'll ride immediately,” Banokles replied, not trying to conceal his delight. ”We'll leave a small force here and take my Thrakians.”
”Not the Thrakians,” the messenger said, lowering his voice as both Trojan and Thrakian soldiers started to gather. ”The king wants only loyal Trojan soldiers to come to the defense of the city. He said the Thrakians were to guard the fortress of Dardanos.”
Kalliades snorted. Had everyone in Troy forgotten that he and Banokles had been Mykene soldiers only a few years previously? He gave orders that the messenger be given food and water, then said to Banokles, ”It is all very well to say 'ride immediately.' But how? A man can walk across this bridge, but we cannot take horses across. And it is an extra day's ride to go around.”
The stocky figure of Khalkeus, who had been hovering within earshot, pushed forward and said impatiently, ”It is a simple problem, easily solved. My workmen will fix a line of st.u.r.dy planks crosswise along the length of the bridge, widening it to the pace of a tall man. Then the horses can be blindfolded and led across in single file. It is quite simple,” he repeated.
”Will it take their weight?” Banokles asked doubtfully.
”Of course,” the engineer said irritably. ”It will take whatever weight I choose it to take.”
Kalliades glanced at the sky. ”How long will it take?”
”As long as it takes to stop answering stupid questions.” The redheaded engineer turned on his heel and started hurling orders at his workmen. Within moments, men were sawing planks and others were running to fetch more timber.
Kalliades and Banokles walked back to where Tudhaliyas waited quietly with his men, already dressed to ride.
”Will you join us in the defense of Troy?” Kalliades asked, though he could guess the Hitt.i.te's answer.
Tudhaliyas shook his head ruefully. ”No, my friend. And you would not want me to. If my men and I were to fight for Troy, then my father could never agree to come to the city's aid. As it is, I shall return and send word of your plight, and maybe the emperor will send an army.”
”Priam might well prefer the aid of your three hundred men now than a Hitt.i.te army camped at his gates some day in the future,” Kalliades said. ”That might seem more like a threat than the helping hand of an ally.”
Tudhaliyas smiled. ”Perhaps you are right. War makes friends of enemies and enemies of friends, does it not, Mykene?”